


(like getaway) green

by ziena



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Australia, Bad Decisions, Barebacking, Beaches, Bottom Han Jisung | Han, Bottom Lee Minho | Lee Know, Breathplay, Brother's Best Friend, Childhood Friends, Cigarettes, Cocaine, Cock Warming, Hair-pulling, High Sex, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Rough Sex, Skateboarding, Switching, There Is Only One Skateboard, Top Han Jisung | Han, Top Lee Minho | Lee Know, Under-negotiated Kink, Weed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28898016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziena/pseuds/ziena
Summary: “He doesn’t wanna fuck because he’s too busy skateboarding,” Minho says. “What are we, twelve? I'm too old for this shit."“You poured your drink on him and called him a useless cocksucker because he wouldn’t give you a ride home… on his skateboard.”
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 18
Kudos: 166
Collections: MINSUNG FICATHON: Round One; 2020





	(like getaway) green

**Author's Note:**

> `written for [MINSUNG FICATHON](http://twitter.com/minsungficathon), for [PROMPT **A090**](https://i.ibb.co/mHj6gfh/Screenshot-20210302-182137-Gmail.jpg)`   
>  `title from [getaway green - all time low](https://youtu.be/ocgp10Z_DgU)`
> 
> `TW: drug use (!!), under negotiated kinks, mentions of skateboard related/drug related injuries.`  
> 

Right in the middle of Jisung's pistachio green wall—the one facing his futon, where a TV should be at—hangs an A2-sized white poster. 

With nothing on it. 

Blank.

Jisung sighs. “Don’t tell your brother.”

At first, it doesn’t make sense. 

Post-modernism? _Don't tell Changbin I’m into deconstructing art._

Then, Minho drags his gaze from the poster to the futon and understands everything.

“My silence has a price.” Minho breezes in, uninvited. Shuts the door behind him. Keeps his fingers clasped around the silver doorknob.

Changbin left hours ago, Minho thought Jisung had, too. Thought Jisung had forgotten to turn the lights off in his room.

Otherwise, he would have knocked.

Jisung blinks, lips tightened. “Price?”

Minho drops his gaze to Jisung’s hands: one holds a credit card; the other, his Samsung. Horizontally. Cracks spider-web its screen. “Have a guess.”

Four granulated, white lines are racked on top of the chipped glass.

“Didn’t take you for the type,” Jisung says.

Now, that makes Minho straighten up, roll his shoulders back. Were he a yabby, his claws would be sweeping the air. “What type?”

“Took you for the cherry Coke, not this type of coke guy.” Jisung’s eyes sweep down his figure.

Just to make a point, Minho sips his cherry Cola, the one he’s found tucked deep in Changbin's mini fridge. It's flat. Drags itself down his throat. Stamps his tongue with artificial, fruity aftertaste. “Can’t I be both?”

“You want a line, that’s it?” Chris asks, sitting cross-legged on the laminate floor.

It’s a bad decision, Minho's aware it’s a _bad decision,_ one of those. He’s grown quite used to decisions this bad.

He nods.

“Come here,” Chris says, scooting so Minho can have the seat next to Jisung. He tilts the bottom of his tinny towards him, in offer.

Minho shakes his head, then sits, left leg folded beneath his right. The futon is so narrow his knee pokes the side of Jisung’s thigh. 

No wonder Jisung has dark circles, sleeping in a red mattress. Red increases blood pressure. Keeps you restless. Wide awake. That’s what his Colour Psychology professor said.

“Lino hates drinking,” Jisung says. 

“For real?”

Minho settles his Coke next to Chris’s leg on the floor. “I've never really seen the point?”

“Sure.” Chris offers Minho a loosely rolled twenty dollars. “I mean, nah, I love the scatterbrained... _ness_ of it. Also, I never have hangovers.”

Minho hums. These polymer twenties are stiffer to roll than the old ones. He holds it between his thumb and his index, his other hand mindlessly twisting its centre to tighten the makeshift straw. “Wasn’t there a gig tonight?”

“We’re going in five,” Jisung says, extending him the Samsung.

Minho shifts in his seat. “People?”

“Minutes,” Chris says. “Wanna come with?”

Minho just wants to do this and go back to his bed. Not really his bed. His flocked-top air mattress in Changbin and Jisung's living room. 

Index shutting his left nostril, Minho fits the note to his right. Snorts in before there’s any time, really, to overthink.

It burns all the way through, as first lines tend to do—drips down the back of his throat, and Minho _hates_ the bitterness. Chemical-like, paint thinner. He tilts his head back, and swallows. Watches Jisung pass Chris the last two lines.

“Lino’s busy, yeah? Flat out,” Jisung says, blinking at him in defiance, pinching both nostrils shut. Discreetly, no grimacing, his eyebrows pulled in. “He can’t waste half an hour watching his own brother perform.”

It takes Minho a second to understand it’s a dig. “What, I’ve watched—”

“As kids?” Jisung asks. Minho’s memory is as blank as Jisung's post-modern poster. “You’ve barely talked to Binnie since you left, bet you don't know shite about what’s going on in his life.”

That only hits this deep because Minho knows it's true. His throat thickens with guilt. He tries to swallow it, but his tongue has quickly gone numb. Teeth, front sinuses, tear ducts, cheekbones. _Numb._ Jisung could punch him in the face and Minho wouldn't mind the sting.

After four years abroad nearly ignoring his whole family, here he is, the plot twist: on his first weekend back, sleeping at his stepbrother’s living room, with no idea of what to do with an industrial design degree.

Minho should, at least, be grateful. At least a _bit_ supportive.

“Ji, don’t…" Chris starts. 

Heat radiates off Jisung. Minho’s buzzing, summer-warm. A rushy kind of buzz that makes him want to run a sprint. “How much is it? A ticket.”

“You’re with two thirds of 3racha, mate,” Jisung says, eyes on Chris as the latter does a line. “We'll get you in alright.”

“You don’t _have_ to go,” Chris says, slightly stuffy nosed. “You literally don’t have to.”

Minho feigns deafness. “Changbin took the car? Are you both skating there?” His whole reasoning not to go is that Changbin never invited him. Maybe Changbin hasn’t because he knew he wouldn’t go.

“Take Binnie's bike,” Jisung says with a shrug. He runs a hand through his hair, exposes the long line of his neck. And Minho's eyes fixate on him. “The U-lock is broken.” 

Jisung's skin glows under the brilliance of the room, their surroundings shining sharper as if under stadium floodlights.

“I’m not sure if—"

“I—yeah,” Minho cuts Chris off. He glances back at the blank poster, tapping his index against the rough edges of a burn hole on the futon. It gives him no answers. Unsurprisingly. “I guess I could do that.”

“Changbin’s gonna _gut_ you for stealing his bike, mate.”

“Borrowing,” Jisung states. Minho rakes in a deep breath, and it sends little sparks of pleasure down his chest, across his lungs. Crawls under his skin. “He barely uses it, she'll be right.”

Chris shakes his head. “It’s not borrowing if he’s unaware of it.”

“I’ll tell him when we get there,” Minho joins in with Jisung to make Chris stop talking. The light rail stopped running half an hour ago.

“ _Text him,_ it’s that easy.”

“But then it’s not a surprise,” Jisung says. “When Lino just _shows up._ I bet he’ll stutter.”

Chris sighs. “Your choice.” He tilts Jisung's Samsung towards them and stands from the floor. “You two wanna share this last one? I pass.”

Jisung springs up and takes the note. He sniffs the whole last line and glances back at Minho. “Been five, you coming?”

Minho bites the inside of his cheek. It feels inexplicably good.

He nods.

Minho is untethered by the wind.

He wants it to bite him, to gnaw at his skin, but all the breeze does is brush hair off his face. 

It grazes his neck, down his exposed arms. Knees, calves. So much air he can’t breathe. 

Minho pedals standing, hunched over the foam grip. Not because he’s tired, but for the lactic acid sting. And the rusty bike chain rattles as it spins, white noise whirling through the humidity.

When voices filter in through the night, the three of them decelerate. The slower he pedals, the brighter each colour: Peeling green on his handlebars, Jisung’s red Vans as he skates ahead. People lined outside the nightclub, under the door's accent lights.

And all around him, moonlight reflects off the light poles, off the pavement. It’s beautiful in a midnight lo-fi sort of way; tinged black-and-bright. Long-exposure photography.

A group of girls linger by the parked cars, smoking lipstick-smudged Vogue super slims. Jisung skates past them, unzipped jumper flowing back, only stopping at a dark corner across the street. 

Minho falters when he hops off the bike. Jisung raises a slitted brow at him, with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Who did you buy it from, this time?” Chris asks, approaching them, gripping his drop-through longboard by its truck. “One line and the street sparkled.”

Minho scrapes his thong-clad foot against the pavement. Thongs at a nightclub? He’ll need to chop his feet off before bed, his toes will be unwashable. “Same.”

“Quit buying from dealers who reckon they ate ten caps in one night, bro,” Jisung says. “Give me a call.”

“We should’ve done this earlier, it’s my last weekend off-season.”

Jisung glances back at the club, then conjures a plastic vial from his jumper. Pops its lid open. “And how do you feel about going back to your fish tank?”

“Me? Are _you_ gonna cry about the chlorine smell at the studio?” Chris grins. He extends his free hand to Jisung as if going for a handshake. “Don’t put too much. I don’t wanna look that gacked onstage.”

“You always do, even when you’re not,” Jisung says, taping the vial until crumbly powder piles directly onto the lateral of Chris’s hand. “But I reckon girls like it, so.” Jisung looks at Minho. “You want to?”

Minho nods, no questions asked. He can’t help but want to wipe the resulting smirk off Jisung's face.

“Never thought I’d do lines with you.” Jisung taps the vial once, twice, and a tiny pile of granules glows pale against Minho's skin. “What would your brother say?”

Minho grinds the rocky pile finer with his nail, and powder sticks to it. He presses his nostril shut. Snorts in, swallows, grimaces. This time it’s got a quasi-menthol quality to it—not _mint_ , maybe Vicks VapoRub. Anaesthetic. “That I’m a bad influence.”

Jisung’s gums show when he smiles. “Not this time around, yeah? Now _I’m_ to blame.” 

Last time, when Jisung was still sixteen and Changbin caught them smoking at their parents' portico, Minho had been the one to blame. He boarded a one-way flight to Seoul the next day. 

Chris fishes his mobile off his leather jacket, and it illuminates his face like he’s at a campfire. “Felix says he's got in.”

“Can you grind it for me? Either of you,” Jisung says, tapping the vial onto the back of his own hand. Minho moves to crumble the granules into powder, trying his best not to scratch Jisung’s skin. “Felix who?”

“Blonde who got second place last Nationals? From Sydney, you saw him that day…he’s visiting. Kind of.”

Jisung sniffs facing the park fence so as not to face the club. When he looks back at them, his pupils are larger. “We’re finally meeting the cutie you ditched us for, that day?”

“Ha. He’s chill,” Chris says, pocketing his mobile. He glances at the nightclub. Brushes his nose clean. “Come on, let's not be late.”

“Do we have a dressing room today?” Jisung asks. “To leave the boards?” 

Chris is already crossing the road when he says a _yes_. It’s barely audible. 

He doesn’t look back.

“Is that his boyfriend?”

“He’s straight. But it’s funny, he gets flustered.” Jisung grins at Minho. “Hook the bike to the fence and pretend the U-lock is not broken, mate. I always do that.”

Minho nods, bending down to do so. Sometimes he forgets most people are straight. “Do you often steal Changbin’s bike?”

“ _Shhh_ , never.”

Chris is _at least_ bi.

Minho knows that from the way Felix wraps an arm around Chris's waist. Under his jacket. The way he keeps it there. Felix will keep his jacket for him while he performs, otherwise, _heatstroke._ Chris gawks up at him as if they weren’t the same height, as if Felix were as sparkly as the streets outside.

He shouldn’t pry, he knows that, but coke amplifies Minho’s cat lady tendencies. All he wants to do is put a chair out on the sidewalk, and gossip with neighbours about other people’s lives. 

Felix is _neighbours._ Chris is other people’s lives. 

“So, are you dating, or?” Minho asks as the song lowers, resting an elbow on the concrete countertop. The DJ announces 3racha over the loudspeakers.

Felix blinks up at him, and Minho could count his freckles. “Are you hitting on me?” Strobe lights pulse, reflecting off Felix’s bleached hair. The buzzing part of Minho wants to be at the dance floor, making out with someone to see if Jisung would glance at him.

Would he?

His frayed t-shirt sticks to his shoulder blades. “Might depend on your answer.” 

Felix plays with his soggy paper straw, sinking ice cubes and watching them resurface. “It’s complicated,” he says.

“Are you sleeping with Chris?” Minho asks, and the way Felix jerks his head up at him says everything. “ _At_. Like, tonight. Sorry, I lived in Korea for too long—prepositions, ay. You’re from Sydney, I hear?”

Felix opens his mouth then closes it as if unsure what to say. Minho drags his gaze to the 3racha logo projected behind the DJ stand. Here, from the second floor, he has the best view. Girls cram shoulder to shoulder down on the dance floor, probably soaked in sweat, but still, they shout as three figures step on the stage. “Right,” Minho says, “ _complicated_.”

“I said nothing,” Felix counters. The white lights turn shamrock. 

Minho bites back a smirk. “Ah, don’t worry,” he says. It's just a hypothesis.

Green floods Changbin’s face, washing over his skin as he lowers his head. The gathered crowd screams, the stuffy air vibrates. 

Minho grips the rail, waiting for the track, glancing at the sea of raised phones and hands. What’s the worst that could happen if he went downstairs? He takes a deep breath. 

The beat drops. They start. 

All Minho can do is stare—agape, his lips slack. Heavy bass, splash cymbals assault his ears as Minho steps down the steel stairs, and alcohol mists the air. It dissolves on his tongue along with dry ice and sweat, cologne and walls of bodies are packing the first floor. So much so the ground is more sneakers than concrete. Blood pounds on his neck.

It’s hard to read Changbin.

Particularly in deep lighting, but still, Minho sees the moment his gaze shifts towards him. To Minho. The stairs. By Changbin’s stutter he reckons he didn’t expect it. His brows raise at either Minho or at his own mistake, and Jisung leaps in and spits out Changbin’s verse, instead. 

It’s quite magnetic.

“The courage,” Felix says when Minho returns, pushing past people, sticky and probably flushed red. Felix grabs Chris's jacket from the barstool he’d been saving for Minho to sit at. “I was ready to spend my night mopping up puddles of you.”

“Right,” Minho says. He wouldn’t have gone down there either, under normal circumstances. “I swear to god tin-sardining isn’t usually my thing.”

Jisung is the first to spot them at the bar. “You liked it, yeah?” He teases, nudging Minho’s exposed knee with the cold bottom of his bottle. “ _Thank you, Jisung, for bringing me,”_ Jisung says in a higher pitched voice, “but, seriously, did you? Like it.”

“That was—you guys are…” Minho clears his throat. If he is this hoarse, the front row girls must have no vocal cords left. “Where’s Changbin?” 

Minho can’t remember the last time he gave Changbin a hug. 

Thin strands stick to Jisung’s forehead. “He’s businessing this weekend, Chris deserved a break.” 

Minho jerks his head towards Felix, and it must have been too obvious of a look, for Felix flashes him a fake smile like he’d rather be anywhere else.

The flashing lights make Jisung’s throat look like it moves in slow-motion. He drains half the water in one go. “Is that why Changbin left home so early?” Minho asks. “Today.”

Jisung nods, lowering his bottle, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He leans closer to Minho’s barstool, hovering between him and Felix. “You look dehydrated as. Want a drink? It’s free for me.”

“I don’t d—”

“Do _you_ want a drink, Felix?”

“Chris’s already got me one, but thanks, really,” Felix says, raising his cup, smile too warm for this late hour. He studies them, eyes on Jisung as the latter scoots closer to Minho and rests both hands on the counter, caging him in.

Everything’s noise. 

Jisung's bottle against the concrete. 

Minho parts his thighs, and Jisung’s body heat radiates in through his shorts. 

“What about non-alcoholic ones,” Jisung says, puffs of breath chilling Minho’s damp neck. “It’s free for us, let me be nice.” Jisung chuckles. “Virgin sex on the beach? _You’d_ like that.”

“Sure.” Minho leans back. The lights blink blindingly. “Thanks,” he adds, heart double-timing. Changbin might be watching, Minho can’t indulge. He pokes Jisung’s waist to make the boy flinch away from him.

Whilst Jisung orders, Minho scans the club. Instead of Changbin, he spots Chris emerging from the vacuum of bodies on the stairs.

“…little _ripper_ ,” Felix says, light and affectionate. The speakers are low enough by the bar Minho can eavesdrop. He doesn’t try to hide it, and they don’t seem to care. Chris, who’s red-faced from the heat and the stage, flushes darker. “Is there anything you can't do?”

Minho bites his inner cheeks. He can’t laugh, he _can’t_ laugh, deep breaths, _deep breaths._

Chris goes to grab his jacket, but Felix blocks him by hugging it closer to his lap. “No-oh, you’re too hot to even look at leather, I’m carrying it.”

“Oh, flattery?” Chris leans in, dimples showing. Minho coughs to hide a snicker, and Jisung mindlessly pats him on the back to a different beat than the speakers’, eyes blank on the barman. “So, what d’you reckon? Was it good?”

“I almost went to the dance floor, that’s how good...Minho did go to the dance floor,” Felix says, smirking slowly at Minho as if this was his payback. 

“Minho?” Jisung blinks out of his daze and stares at Felix, then at Minho. “Dance floor?” The barman hands Jisung two drinks, and Jisung hands Minho the orange one. Paper straws on _plastic_ cups.

“Yeah, Bin saw Minho there,” Chris says. “Probably why he stuttered, I bet he feels like shit now...” Chris looks at Felix, at the exit sign and pantomimes having a smoke. Felix nods, then sips his drink and follows him. 

Jisung nods, then sips his drink, then follows them. 

Wait. 

Minho grabs Jisung’s forearm. “Leave them, let them do their thing,” he says, rushed.

“What thing?” Jisung asks, brows furrowing. “Smoke?” After a moment, he asks, “do you just want me to stay here with you?” Minho shakes his head, gesturing at the exit door, then he stops, and his arm drops. He’s not sure how to answer that. “…thought so.”

Jisung follows Chris and Felix out of the club.

Changbin greets him by snatching Minho’s hand from the counter with such force Minho thinks it’s a robbery. He squeezes his fingers. “How many should I cut off? _Thief_.”

Minho grins. “Your bike chain’s rattling, you need to tighten it.”

“ _You_ tighten it, you _stole_ it, fuck you—could’ve asked me, texted...” Changbin releases him. His tone is angry but he’s smiling. 

Minho opens and closes his fist to stimulate the blood circulation back. “Who told you?” 

“Chris…doesn’t know how to lie.”

“At least I saw your stage,” Minho says. “I’d have dropped out of Uni if I were this talented at anything artistic.”

Even in the strobe lighting, which obscured most things, Changbin looks tired. Bags under his eyes, shoulders hunched. University? Rap?

“Don’t put yourself down just to compliment me. I’ll take it, though,” Changbin says. “How come you’re here?” 

“Jisung.”

Changbin’s eyes widen, crinkling at the corners. Minho stands from the barstool and wraps an arm around his waist. “You two are talking again? Since _when?_ No one tells me anything.”

Changbin pats Minho’s damp hair, running his fingers through it the way his mom always does when they hug her like this. “No one tells you shit ‘cos you judge us,” Minho murmurs. “Doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”

“What? I never judge you, brother.” Changbin hooks his chin onto his shoulder. “Except when you…” Changbin tenses. Minho’s stomach drops. He takes an audible, long breath, pushes Minho back and grabs his jaw. Tight. Squeezing in, glaring straight into his eyes, their noses a hair-width apart. Changbin’s face shifts. “ _Always_ behind my back, are you kidding?” Changbin shoves him. 

Minho’s back hits the counter. “I—"

“S’why you came? I should’ve guessed, ha.” Changbin’s nostrils flare. “Really…” He shakes his head, raking in deep breaths through his nose. “I’m driving home, _fuck you._ I hope you crawl back, hope your high’s worth it,” he spits, then shoves Minho back again. 

Changbin crosses the club towards the exit stairs far too fast. Minho’s still processing it, limbs frozen, the edge of the concrete counter digging into his waist.

Minho stays by the counter until Jisung returns and physically drags him away. Mouth closed, eyes averted from his, Jisung grabs his forearm and hauls him past the people, up the stairs. Out into the night air that chills his skin.

Jisung scans the street, fingers still clasping Minho. “Fuck…okay, so, he left for real…” he says, then chuckles a dry laugh. Minho hums questioningly. “I asked Binnie to wait until I’d found you, but.”

“Is he not mad at Chris?” Where’s Chris?

“ _What?_ He cursed Chris for having zero professionalism _in front of Felix_ , bro, shut up. No point in talking when Changbin’s spitting his dummy." Jisung shakes his head. “Let’s just go home, grab the bik—”

Minho notices it right as Jisung does.

Changbin’s bike is gone.  


Minho sits at the dark spot where the bike was supposed to be and no cameras point there, of course, that's why Jisung chose it. All colours have faded by now, no stars to be looked upon in this matte black canvas of a night. Monochrome.

Footsteps approach him, but Minho keeps his head tucked into his knees, the white fence digging into his back.

“Apparently no one saw it happen either,” Jisung says. “I’m so sorry I didn’t look this way when I…”

Minho jerks his head up, puffy eyes and all. “ _That’s_ what you’re sorry about?”

“This shit's at least fifty percent your fault,” Jisung says, towering over him. He drops his mini longboard onto the pavement and steps one foot on it. “I put no gun to your head.”

“Right, you’re guilt-free.”

Jisung’s hands sweep the air, gesticulating like he does when agitated. “ _You_ told Binnie, you cunt. You ruined my night and now it’s _my_ fault? Fuck you. I do this _once a year_ , only...and now where’s Chris?” Jisung looks around to make a point. “Home. Because of _you_. Shut the fuck up.”

Minho cracks his neck to the side, rubs a hand on his face. He shouldn’t have come. Maybe that’s an understatement. “How am I supposed to go back to your flat now? I didn’t bring my phone.” And Minho doesn’t know their address. All he has is thirty dollars and 1/3 of pack of Africa Random Fives he’s smuggled in from Korea. 

“Get a cab or walk, fuck you.” Jisung shuffles his foot and it makes his longboard graze Minho’s drink that lays on the floor beside him, nearly making it spill over.

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” Minho snaps, grabbing his cup and standing to face Jisung. “You said it’d be half and hour, I didn't bring anything.”

“What’s wrong with _me?_

Minho walks into his space and jabs a finger into Jisung’s chest. “You should at least give me a ride, it’s your fault Changbin didn’t drive me home.”

Jisung laughs. “My board barely fits _me_.”

“See?” Minho gets even closer to him, splaying his hand on Jisung’s chest. “You put me in this mess and now you’re not even going to help me?” 

“I didn’t make you do anything, what the fuck, _grow up_.” Jisung slaps Minho’s hand away from him, and it makes Minho stumble. He almost falls back. Minho’s knee-jerk reaction is instantaneous:

Minho throws his drink on Jisung’s face. "...useless _cocksucker._ "

Right at his face, and it splashes with a wet sound. Jisung’s face drips orange and cranberry juice, trickling down to his jumper. It’s going to stain. Jisung breathes through his mouth, his nose wet with juice.

When their eyes meet, Minho’s heart plummets. 

Jisung rubs his face dry, then he turns around on his heels and pushes off on his skateboard.

Jisung never, really, learned how to properly ride a bike. 

His parents never taught him. And, being the only child, Jisung never had a Minho to teach him while growing up. Still, Jisung thinks about bikes, about brothers. Quite a lot. 

“Hyung's here,” Changbin said, the day he invited Jisung to sleep at his house for the first time. “I texted him to come get you, but I thought he’d take longer.”

Minho leaned against the fence in his navy-blue uniform pants, a grin spreading slowly on his face. He looked scarily grown-up.

Jisung hopped from foot to foot as Changbin climbed onto his tiny bike. It wouldn’t ever fit two people. 

Not even two small people.

“Come on, kid,” Minho said, then, smiling at his jitteriness. “Hop on the handlebars.” Minho widened his grip on the bars, bringing one foot from the pavers to the bike’s little chromed pedal. “Just keep your muscles locked and try not to move too much.”

Jisung inverted his backpack so it hung over his chest, and, taking a deep breath, straddled the bike’s front wheel. “How?”

“To hop on?”

“To lock my muscles.”

“Oh…just, tighten them? Like,” Minho poked the side of Jisung’s waist, and Jisung squirmed. “Sorry,” Minho grinned. He poked Jisung’s arm instead. “Lock it like you’re going to hit something.”

“I’ve never hit anyone.”

“Just pretend you—sure. Like you’re lifting something heavy, then?” Jisung moved his hands up as if lifting a box. Minho poked his arm again. “Good, that’s it, do the same with your whole body now.”

Jisung hopped up and eased himself onto the bars, Minho’s bony knuckles digging into the back of his thighs. The bike wobbled. He gripped Minho's wrists to steady himself. 

“Ready?” Minho’s breath was warm on Jisung's ear. 

Jisung nodded, eyebrows knitting.

There they went, down the road, speeding through the summer humidity. Jisung tried so hard to keep still he barely breathed.

Warm sunlight glinted all around them, everywhere, reflecting off cars' windows and off traffic poles. Jisung tried to focus on it, as his heart pounded so loud it was all he could hear.

He wanted to be like those older teens in movies, tipping his head back to feel the wind, eyes closed. Instead, he locked his muscles so tight his whole body hurt, knees touching, the tips of his black leather shoes grazing each other like kids’ feet do.

“You can let your body lean a bit,” Minho whispered; chin propped over Jisung’s tense shoulder. “We're almost home...”

Jisung’s heart jumped to his throat each time a car sped by too close. And each time, no exceptions, Minho chuckled into his ear. Instead of angering him, it made Jisung feel safer.

Still, Jisung’s mother would _kill_ him if he fell, would kill him even harder if he damaged his uniform. But Minho rode carefully, and Jisung felt himself relax as the seconds dragged by. 

They soon slowed down, turning left into a cul-the-sac, in which stood the prettiest house Jisung had ever seen. A column of multi-tone tan stones crawled from the overhead garage door to the second-floor balcony. “Wow,” Jisung let out, gripping Minho’s wrists tighter, and Minho chuckled warmly against the sweaty back of his neck.

The black roof tiles on the front portico hung low enough a taller boy could grab onto them, maybe, if they jumped high enough. 

Like older teens did in movies. 

Had Minho ever tried that? 

Did he ever sneak out through his window? He was tall enough to.

Jisung looked back at Minho from behind his shoulder. “Do you ever—” But Minho poked his waist and he nearly dropped to the grass, squirming as if electrocuted. 

“You know how to bike?” Minho asked, laughing as he helped Jisung off the shiny handlebars without falling to his face. “I taught Changbin, I could teach you.”

Jisung shook his head, heat spreading up his neck.

Minho led his bike through the grass and left it leaning against the sleek black garage door. Then, he glanced down at Jisung, who’d followed him like a puppy.

“Gwiyeopta…” Minho whispered, smiling as he patted Jisung’s overgrown hair. Jisung hummed in confusion. “You don’t speak Korean?” He asked. Jisung shook his head. “Your parents never…I mean, I cou—” 

Jisung shook his head again, harder, so hard he felt like a bobblehead action figure. He blinked at the grass.

“Hey, it’s okay...” Minho muttered, right as rhythmic thuds indicated Changbin’s arrival.

“I’m gonna tell your dad you didn’t stop at the red lights.” Changbin pouted as he threw his bike against the garage door, slamming it with a metallic crash that made Jisung flinch back.

Minho turned his back to Changbin, fishing keys out of his uniform pants. “I’ll be upstairs until dad returns, you kids tell me if you need anything.”

“I'm not a _kid,_ fuck off. You're two ye—"

 _“Ankle biter."_ Minho finally spared Changbin a glare. “Watch your mouth or I’ll tell your mom.” With that, Minho jerked the door open and disappeared past the threshold.

“I hate him.” Changbin sighed. Jisung nodded out of habit, peeking curiously at his friend. From how much Changbin talked about Minho, it was clear he didn’t.

“I think he’s cool,” Jisung blurted before he could help himself.

Changbin eyed him weirdly, like Jisung had grown a new head. “Sure. Wanna play Halo?”

Thirty dollars is not enough for a pack of cigarettes, because of yearly-increasing tobacco taxes. In Korea, that would buy him half a carton.

Minho takes the last drag of his last cigarette. Apple-flavoured, but it’s menthol, really. He stores the filter in its empty pack. One mission, now: _cigarettes_. He’s not going to think about how to go home. Panicking won’t solve anything.

 _Anything_.

Clouds of smoke paint the night.

Minho crosses the boulevard, past the light-rail tracks and on a wood bench, longboard in his lap, is

_Jisung._

Minho halts in the middle of the nature strip.

Jisung’s lighting a roll-up, cheeks hollowed as he tries to make the flame of his match not go out. His eyes narrow when he sees Minho. “Fucking _finally?_ ” He plucks his cigarette out. “Where were you? I’ve been here for…”

“I—at the…do you…” Minho rubs the back of his neck, approaching Jisung. The floor in front of him is a painted black-and-white chessboard, and Minho stands at the white square where the white queens begin chess games at. “The bouncer said there’s a corner shop…that sells Manchesters? Around here? Do y—”

“Ew,” Jisung says. “ _Manchesters…_ ” He offers Minho the cigarette he’s just lit. “Rollie?”

“Ew,” Minho judges back. “That’s just as disgusting, shut up.”

“Korea spoiled your tastebuds...” Jisung’s pupils look huge. “ _My_ chop-chop is Aussie-grown, mate, better than anything you smoke.”

“That doesn’t say much.”

Jisung laughs. “Right, Mr. Lungs of Steel.”

“What are you doing here?” Minho looks around. These streets look apocalyptic at night.

“You’d have to pass by here at one point, you can’t go home without crossing Hunter Street.”

“Sure,” Minho says. “I don’t live here.”

“It’s your lucky day.” Jisung points at the ochre-coloured shop behind his bench, its logo is green, red, and orange enough to resemble a 7eleven. “They sell it, but I shouldn’t tell you that, yeah? You _dobber_ , fuck you.”

Oh. “I’m sorry…” Minho says. “I didn’t _really_ …”

Changbin kind of…guessed it. By himself. 

But Jisung won’t believe him.

“Whatever,” Jisung says. “You want a line?” His eyes meet Minho’s. “Or do you want to be coming down on the way home.”

Minho shuffles his foot on his white square. "How much do you have?”

“Enough to last me and Chris the night.” Jisung’s rollie goes out again. He pockets it. “But I’ve got no Chris, so…my shout if you want to, I mean. I’m gonna finish it today either way.”

“Extreme.”

“I’m not, it’s just—” Jisung blinks at the green wheels of his board. “We do it once a year, it’s—when he’s off-season...and I’m not gonna throw it away, so...”

“So?”

“So, you want a line?”

Minho stalls. “Were you doing it alone?”

" _Have a guess,_ " Jisung mocks him. His heel is tap- _tap_ -tapping the pavement like a ticking clock, like the Jaws theme song.

As usual.

"I can't tell, you always look like you’re fiending,” Minho says.

_"Dramatic.”_

"Yourself?"

"You." Jisung stands, longboard in hand, and glances at the corner shop. "I want lollies.”

“Mmhm.” Minho wants cigarettes. “Let’s.”

Jisung takes a blue-labelled bottle of tequila hostage from the pile at the discount table.

"Put it down..." Minho grabs the back of his jumper. “Cocaethylene is like, fifty thousand times deadli—"

"I'm not asking you to drink with me, _Binnie_ ,” Jisung mutters low enough the cashier girl can’t hear it. “Can’t deny the family resemblance.”

“Completely unrelated.”

Jisung slides away from his grasp, almost backing into the shelving unit of canned beans. “You sound just like him, though...”

The vacuum seal on the refrigerated case breaks as Jisung opens its door to stare at beers. The Men Who Stare at Goats, except it's beers.

He just _stares_ at them.

Minho can smell the grease from the countertop rotary hot dog machine near the cashier girl.

In Korea, there’d be a microwave. Somewhere.

Jisung shuts the refrigerator with a muted sound, then grabs a packet of white bread. Minho pretends to have a hard time choosing between Pods and pizza Shapes. He chooses none.

They sell Manchesters for A$15.75.

“When did you become a coke sommelier? To judge my opinions like that.” 

Minho laughs. “ _Play Doh?_ You have no rights to that opinion.”

“Nail polish,” Jisung says. Spare powder dusts the depression between the curved edged of his mobile screen and its cover. “Those cheap ones, I don’t know, I’ve got no nails.”

Minho collects these spare granules on his index. "Open your mouth," he says, scraping his knees on the gritty sand as he scoots closer to Jisung, who’s sat over his board with his toes buried in sand.

“I don't know where your hand’s been.” Jisung leans away, a smile tugging his lips. “You think this is bush week?”

Minho rubs the powder on his own gums instead, then, feeling the salty air on his tongue. He doesn’t usually enjoy neither. Jisung laughs at the way he grimaces, passing him a polymer note. This time, a yellow fifty. 

Minho’s next line tastes like Listerine.

“Listerine.”

“You judge me for Play Doh and say _Listerine_?” Jisung tsks. _“You_ have no rights to that opinion.”

Minho rests a hand on Jisung’s skateboard to avoid resting it on the sand. His cat lady buzz has returned, and Minho wants to talk about important things. “Chris is not straight, I'm dying on this hill.”

“ _Our_ Chris?” Jisung does a line. Minho watches his throat bob as he swallows.

Minho chuckles. “Did you see him with Felix?”

“I saw _you_ with Felix.” Jisung pauses, then he stutters, “no, not like—like, in a _I’m glad you’re making friends_ way.”

The beach hums in a drowned-out shush like it wants them to shut up. 

Waves crashing, foam fizzing. Water sweeps ashore to wet the sand and almost grazes their bare feet. 

“One more line?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, instantly. Too harsh. “Yeah…” He softens it. “But really, you haven’t noticed them? They’re so obvious.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Rude.”

Wordlessly, Jisung parts his thighs for him to settle in between them, with his back to his chest. Maybe as an apology, maybe it’s just him giving Minho the option of not needing to touch the sand with his hands for balance.

Minho wants to _talk._ About anything. What does Jisung like talking about? “How long does it take to write a song?” 

Jisung stares quizzingly at him, holding his phone up for Minho. “Depends…Binnie takes forever.”

“Maybe _you_ write too fast.” Minho brings the note up to his nose again and sniffs in. The rush spikes down his spine, numbing the back of his throat. He passes the note back to Jisung. “How come you write so fast?”

“Do you wanna know or are you just asking?”

Minho hesitates. “Tell me,” he says, finally. _“Senpai._ Teach me your ways.” A beat stretches. “I like it when you talk,” he adds.

This time, after this line, Jisung pinches his nose shut for longer. “I fit words into patterns.” His puffs of breath hit the back of Minho’s neck. "Of stressed syllables, I…memorize patterns from raps I like, and then there’s always one, at least, that fits the beat, any beat."

"…plagiarism?"

"No, I— _no_ , unless Drake is plagiarising the Odyssey?” Jisung hooks his chin on Minho’s shoulder. “Pick a song, I’ll show you. Any. _Rap._ ”

"...Eminem?" Minho’s vanilla like that.

"Pick a verse.”

He mumbles Lose Yourself to prompt his brain to remember _any_ part of its lyrics. "Lonely roads, God—"

"— _only knows he's grown farther from home, he’s no father_ ," Jisung sings, bobbing his head slightly, eyes fixed on the sand ahead. "I don't think I…could write in that pattern.”

Minho jerks his head back at him, and his cheek brushes Jisung’s chin. “Is that one hard?”

“I don't _think_ I could _write_ in that _pa_ ttern,” Jisung repeats, in the tune of Lose Yourself. It fits. “It’s an anapaestic tetrameter.” Jisung doesn’t seem to find it as surprising as Minho does.

“Metre?”

Jisung chuckles against his hair. He pockets his phone, then drags both hands to Minho’s outer thighs. “Right, so this is a stressed syllable.” Jisung pats Minho’s right leg. “This is an unstressed one.” He slaps Minho’s left thigh. Minho’s breath hitches. “Sorry.”

“Yeah, nah.” Minho relaxes in his hold, leaning his head back onto Jisung’s shoulder. “Show me…”

Minho closes his eyes. Hears the slide of sea grass as a breeze ruffles through it. Jisung rubs his palms down Minho’s thighs as if trying to warm him. 

“Our lee _know_ , has grown _far_ ther from _home,_ he’s no _fa_ ther.” Jisung playfully slaps his thighs in a left left _right,_ left left _right_ beat. “He goes _home_ , barely _knows_ his own _bro_ ther.”

Minho’s skin prickles every time Jisung’s palms connect to it. “Mmm, I didn’t get it…show me again,” Minho says, cheesy. He laughs. 

Jisung squeezes Minho’s thighs. “How numb are you?” He kisses the spot behind Minho's ear that always makes him tremble. Then, he slaps his thigh again. “Can you feel it?”

Minho grins up at him, lips relaxed. “Again.” 

“I mentioned Drake and the Odyssey...they’re dactylic hexameters.” Jisung slides his hands down, hitching up Minho’s shorts until they’re bunched on his upper thighs. “The opposite pattern to Lose Yourself...the names are scary, but—it's so cool, I swear it's easy after you get the concept.” 

Minho silently parts his lips as Jisung’s thumbs dig into the soft parts of his muscle, massaging it in circles. “You know how Eminem says the beat goes da-da- _dum_ in Lose Yourself? That’s an anapaest. A dactyl is _dum-_ da-da, like Drake in Versace...like, if you sing ver- _sa-_ ce-ver- _sa-_ ce-ver, see how it’s a dactyl?”

“Yeah?”

Jisung gives him no warning before the first slap. “ _Fuck_ all your _fee_ lings ‘cos _busi_ ness is _busi_ ness, it’s _stric_ tly fi _nan_ cial.” _Right_ , left, left. _Right_ , left, left. Jisung chuckles, and Minho follows him, shoulders trembling as he laughs. “ _Al_ ways the _first_ one to _get_ it, mate, _that's_ how you _lead_ by e _xam_ ple.”

Minho’s skin tingles when Jisung so much as brushes against it. Is it _in public_ if there’s no one around?

Minho tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls his face towards him. "Don't touch me like that," Jisung mutters, tensing his neck and not leaning in. “You know what you do to me...”

Thighs parting further, Minho loosens his grip. "You hate the way I touch you?"

"I've tried to..."

"Hate it?"

"I can't...”

"Then don't..." Minho says with an edge to his voice. He shrugs. "No one needs to know, don’t tell him."

Jisung tilts Minho’s chin up and kisses him first.

Everywhere the water touches feels like stabbing. 

The onshore breeze nips him— _cold._ The soggy sand moulds under his soles, as Minho pads back to the spot where they’d left his t-shirt, now ruined with water and sand, where they’d left Jisung’s pack of white bread, his mobile, water bottle. Everything. _Tequila._ His skateboard.

_Skateboard._

Minho’s feet are icy, even though they’re digging into warm sand, into little holes. Crab-like.

He uncaps Jisung’s tequila on impulse and brings it to his mouth. _Disgusting_ , what the fuck. The last time he’d enjoyed being drunk, he’d been a teen, and it'd been goon—cheap wine cask which sack you blew up to use as a pillow at the end of the nights if you were the sleepy drunk type, like Minho.

His throat is so dry he can’t open his mouth, so he drinks. It’s transparent. _Nobody wants to be transparent._ Not to others, not to themselves. The green wheels seem fluorescent. What if he—

Minho glances at Jisung, who’s still floating on the water, salt weighing his lungs down. He stifles a giggle. The decision is made before Minho fully processes its pros and cons, since the only pro, really, is the _why not_.

He wraps all their belongings in his t-shirt, except for the tequila because fuck that, then he grabs Jisung’s skateboard.

And _runs._

The sand gives as Minho sprints through the salty air, kicking up grains that hit the back of his calves. 

Minho flies up the stone stairs, dry sand scraping his soles, and as soon as he’s on the concrete he’s throwing the mini longboard down and jumping on it. Fuck it. The breeze prickles his skin.

He’s going so fast he can’t breathe, pushing mongo because he never said he was a _good_ skater, honestly, and who cares.

“—ou _cunt_ ,” Jisung’s voice is so far behind it sounds like a detached whisper of wind whirling around the boulevard, and Minho looks behind his shoulder to gauge how far Jisung is. 

That’s a mistake.

Pain blisters up the length of his arm as Minho falls and rolls over it, dragging it against the concrete, his left heel catching on the board and splitting open, it feels like.

Minho spins until he’s belly-up, spread out on the concrete like a chalk outlining, an offering to the gods. He closes his eyes because he doesn’t want to see if there’s blood, so numb his bruises feel like scratches.

Maybe they _are_ scratches.

By the time Jisung reaches him, he doesn’t even look mad anymore. He’s wet from the sea. Jisung’s brows furrow as he pats Minho to check for broken bones, for bruises, for ambulance-worthy injuries.

“What would I tell the ambo when they found you with three drops of blood in your fucking _coke stream_ , mate?” Jisung asks, bending over him on the concrete as if this was a movie war scene and Jisung was the crying girl saying her goodbyes. Except _their_ goodbye was years ago. 

Minho’s left arm is scraped beyond repair, (it's not, really), specked with dried blood that they couldn’t clean despite using Jisung’s water, all of it. There's a gnarly scrape on the heel of his foot. Goodbye. "I swear stupid has a U just because of you, Linnie.”

Minho rolls his eyes. "There's an I in stupid too.” 

Wait.

Jisung laughs, eyes closing into cute little half moons. “I didn't even need to _bait_ you, mat—"

A tiny light-blue soldier crab pads across the concrete on his way to the sand, and Jisung points at it, falling silent as if not to disturb crabbie's late-night strolling.

"Ew," Minho says but leans over his scraped shoulder and watches the crab with him.

Minho's left foot throbs with each step he takes. He manages ten before Jisung halts in front of him, bending his back as a silent _hop up_.

"My turn to carry you," Jisung says, smiling from behind his shoulder at him. "Am I gonna have to pick you up? I _will."_

"To carry me?"

"Hop up." Jisung blocks Minho's way, arms open like a goalkeeper, back pressed to his chest. He swishes his body from side to side like a Betta when Minho chooses to ignore him. "Come on..."

Minho laughs. "I could just..." He nods at the board. _"Please,_ I won’t run away this time," Minho says, pecking the side of Jisung's neck out of sheer impulse. He trails his hands around the boy's waist, and Jisung’s back stiffens. "I swear..."

Jisung's breath hitches. Maybe Minho's too close.

A second hangs, two. Three.

Then, eyes fixed on the trees that obscure the beach from them, Jisung hands him the skateboard.

Minho rests his bad foot over his good one when he steps onto it, extending a hand for the younger to guide him ahead. “I can't push off with only one and a half feet...”

Jisung takes his hand.

To stay balanced on the board, Minho tightens his muscles, and that's the only reason why.

"Chill, I won't let you fall." Jisung smiles, and Minho smiles back, trying to keep it small, trying not to openly _beam_ at him like he honestly wants to do. "That sounded cheesy...”

Minho's kind of cheesy too, it’s okay. His fingers twitch, and Jisung grasps his hand tighter.

Their hands are the same size.

Reserve Road stretches ahead of them, quiet like it never is during the day. The muted swish and crash of waves, the grinding of plastic on pavement are familiar like nothing else really is.

"Jisung," he says, chest clenching.

"Yeah?" Familiar.

Minho just wants to hear his voice. "If you had a band, what would you name it?"

"3racha.”

Minho laughs and tugs at his hand. “That doesn’t count...” 

The board hits Jisung’s ankle, then, and Minho almost crashes. Jisung splays a hand on his belly. “What would _you_ pick?”

“A random thought, any thought.”

“Pick one, it's gonna be the name of our duo. Do you play League?”

“Death by Misadventure.” Minho laughs. “How about you?”

“Other than 3racha?” Jisung seems lost for a second. “5sant Pluckers,” he says. “Whatever, something dramatic—Solstices and the Diesel.”

“ _Clumsy Wives and the Cellophane.”_

“McChord and the Lifeless Kittens.”

Minho grins up at him, eyes squinting. “That one I’d kill to join.”

Jisung laughs, pulling him forward by his hand as the neon green wheels scrape the concrete. “Nah... _you're_ the dead kitten.”

Minho can’t seem to stop hitting Jisung’s ankles with the nose of the board, so Jisung halts in front of him again. “Up,” he says, arms extended. “If you don’t, I’m leaving you behind.”

“I’d fall to my knees and beg you to stay, you wouldn’t have the heart,” Minho says, deadpan.

“I wouldn’t.” And Minho wouldn’t kneel. “How was Korea?”

“That’s vague.” Minho bends to grab the board, balancing himself in his right foot. The left one gives a muted throb. “It was good.”

“That’s _vaguer.”_

“I guess,” Minho hops onto his back, holding the mini board for him, its deck grazing Jisung's chest. “If I tell how many times people asked me if I’ve ever seen a kangaroo.”

Jisung jostles him up to get a better grip under his thighs, then starts walking down the green bike lane. Slowly. _Walking._ Bike lane. “You know what a kangaroo word is?”

Minho hums questioningly. Jisung's skin is still sticky from the water. “Tell me.”

“A word that has a synonym inside itself.” Jisung’s footsteps sound rhythmic. “Like, chicken has _hen_ inside of it...blossom has _bloom_.”

“Masculine.” _Male._

“I am, thank you.” Jisung laughs. “Honourable.”

“ _Honour_?” Minho asks. Jisung nods. “Does it count as a synonym?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jisung says, cheeks puffed as he smiles. “Your Honour.”

Eventually, Jisung gives up. “Okay, fuck it…we're never gonna get home like this, give me.”

Jisung holds Minho with only one hand around his thigh as he lowers his board and slides onto it, the small deck wobbling from the extra weight.

“If you make me break my board...” Jisung pushes off the pavement.

A bristle-thin gold chain catches the moonlight against his neck, and Minho’s heart races.

“Is this...” He drags his hand over Jisung’s collarbones and tries to feel for the stiff knot of a pendant. It’s there—barely perceptible. He traces it over the fabric. “You still wear the locket? Why?”

Jisung sighs, then he shrugs half-heartedly, expertly facing forward as they skate down the never-ending boulevard. “I don’t know...some people look at it and think I have someone to miss.”

The air cools on Minho’s skin. 

Barely no wind, but skating makes it feel like there is. Jisung's grip on him doesn’t falter. 

“Do you?” Minho asks.

Four years ago, he gave Jisung that necklace. The gold locket he’d found drowned in a puddle in his way home from his last day of school. A morning so rainy droplets misted off the pavement like fizz.

He’d thumbed it dry, and opened it to check whose it was, but the photo was already smudged, dissolving. Water-logged to the point no faces could be discerned.

Minho tucked it inside his coat, his cold fingers tangling themselves in the fragile gold chain. 

The next day it was Jisung’s, then Minho boarded a plane.

“Yeah, my girlfriend...she's a private in the army, I miss her,” Jisung says, grief filling his voice. 

Minho's head jerks to him. “Y—"

“Or I miss my grandfather...he taught me how to whistle, you remember him? Old man owned a canola farm, had an oak tree in the middle of that yellow field,” Jisung lies. Taffy. “I visited him every summer, it’s his picture inside of it...”

“You’ve never met your grandfather,” Minho says. “What do you do when people ask to see what’s in the locket?”

“I say that my grief is _such_ I couldn't bare a look.”

“What if _I_ asked to see it?”

“It’s empty, Lino...” Jisung leans his body on his heels so they turn a corner. “Sometimes a locket’s just a locket."

Around them everything is overwhelmingly green, trees creeping like vines into the dark sky. So green it smells of over-saturation. “Let me see it.”

Jisung tightens his grip on the muscle of his legs, fingers digging in. “You don’t trust me?”

Minho reaches inside Jisung’s jumper, grasps for the pendant, then clicks it open. The edge catches the moonlight. 

It’s empty.

"You're like a blue arsed fly, kid, _breathe_ ," Minho says, leaning against the fridge, tapping his heel against the patterned tiles. Minho has just walked in and he's already seen Jisung put away cutlery that Changbin's left out, sweep bread crumbles from the toaster into the sink, grab two mugs, grab a spoon. "I'm tired just by watching you."

"Need a line? You're getting _old._ "

Moonlight peeks in through the ground-glass window, outlining Jisung's body. He's shirtless, smelling of herbal shampoo; those vegan ones. Low poo. Minho can't tell which herb from this far away, not with half his nose this clogged.

Maybe he should step closer.

"Cracked-out house cleaning? Let's," Minho says, nonchalant. A vase of wilting flowers surrounded by yellow pollen dust sits by the sink. Wilting. By the _sink._ "What are you making?"

Jisung chuckles and push-touches a cabinet open to grab malted chocolate powder. "Tonight's nostalgia night."

"Why, do I make you nostalgic?"

Jisung grins. "I'mma make you the best Milo in the world. Unless you're insane like Binnie and you only drink it cold, 'cos then...I refuse to be part of it. It doesn't dissolve when it's cold.”

Minho takes one of Jisung’s mugs to the sink, then fills it and waters the flowers. "Are they dead?"

_Shrivelling._

"...probably." Jisung laughs. "Worth a try, though, I keep buying new ones then forgetting to water them."

"They're _by the sink."_

"Make it your daily task, then," Jisung says. “I’d love to see my flowers flourish.”

Toast crumbs stick to Minho's soles and he wants to kill Changbin for it. He swipes one foot over the other to remove the granules, repeatedly, forgetting it’s bandaged.

He pads towards Jisung to close the cabinet for him, just to occupy his hands. 

Jisung’s cabinet is colour coded. Reds with reds, greens with greens. Minho could look at it all day. "Are those _green_ sprinkles?" He asks, reaching for the half-empty 100s & 1000s before Jisung can stop him. "Why do you have so much green stuff?"

Jisung grabs the sprinkles from him and sets it on the counter. "Green is 3racha's colour, kind of. We made a sprinkley cake last year.”

Jisung spreads butter evenly, perfectly, on two slices of bread, like the Virgo that he is. "Fairy bread, yeah, _nostalgic,_ you have the best ideas, Linnie."

It wasn't Minho's idea. “Do you remember when—"

"—yeah," Jisung cuts in, glancing back at him. They're not touching, but the warmth of Jisung's back radiates in through Minho's pajama t-shirt. "I still have that skateboard, can you believe it? The back wheels broke for real, but I keep the deck as a..."

A second hangs between them.

"As a what?"

Jisung shrugs.

Minho knows that he's smiling from the way Jisung’s cheeks puff up.

On Jisung’s 13th birthday, Minho barged in Changbin's room to give Jisung a skateboard—the board he’d found broken, took home and fixed for Jisung to have some way of accompanying Changbin home.

He’d barged in and the kids were eating fairy bread in the bed.

Changbin’s mother would _kill them_.

They stared at him, frozen. "I'm going to tell your mom," Minho threatened out of habit, but Changbin sprang up in front of Jisung as if protecting him.

"Jisung never had fairy bread, it's his _birthday,_ fuck off. Come here and _take it."_

"Mom says it's not real food," Jisung said, his voice tiny, eyes glued to the multi-coloured sprinkles scattered across Changbin's doona.

Minho’s heart clenched.

He never told Changbin's mother.

Now, Jisung barely startles as Minho sneaks his arms around him, as if living with Changbin has gotten him used to back hugs.

"You used to be so cute..." Minho says, breathing in the herbal scent of his damp hair. Lemon balm tea? “Kept following me around.”

"Am I not cute anymore?" Jisung jerks his butter knife up, hovering it in front of Minho, threateningly. "Careful with your answer."

"Cute wouldn't be the word I'd pick, nah," Minho says, then he licks the butter knife.

Jisung gives him a disgusted look, but asks, "how'd you define me? Pick a word."

"Where’s this _best Milo in the world_ you promised me?"

"Milk or water?"

 _"Milk,_ what, are you crazy?"

"I like it with water, too, it's faster," Jisung says, uncapping the sprinkles. "It's a Milo, not a _milk,_ nothing wrong with using water."

"And you had the gut to shit-talk Changbin about drinking it cold, you hypocrite,” Minho teases, right as Jisung starts pouring 100s and 1000s over the bread. "What are you _doing—"_

Minho takes the sprinkles and pours it over the Tupperware lid Jisung's using as a plate, instead. Then, he rubs a buttered slice of bread against it. When he peels it off, they are perfectly distributed.

"Oh, that's brilliant,” Jisung says. Minho's chest flutters a little.

He goes to eat it, but Jisung is faster and takes a bite of it first.

" _This_ year I'm _eat_ ing your _food_ and my _ta_ ble got _so_ many _plates_ on it,” Jisung sings. Minho furrows his brows. Jisung nudges his arm, playfully. "Not my fault you don't know Versace."

"I've never listened to—"

"Not my fault,” Jisung repeats, tapping Minho’s exposed thigh as a wordless _let me move_. " _Hun_ dred inch _te_ lly at _my_ house, I _sit_ back like _damn_ , I look _great_ on it."

He scoops chocolate power into the mugs.

Minho searches the cabinets for a real plate to put their bread on, opening and closing the push-touch doors with muted thuds. "Are there any plates in this house?"

Jisung barely spares him a look. “Tupperware’s multifunctional.”

  
Changbin’s door is closed. Minho halts in front of it.

"The rooms?" Jisung chuckles, pushing his own door open. Jisung and Changbin’s rooms face each other, like Changbin and Minho’s used to. "Binnie picked this flat, wanna know why? _Ask_ him. _Talk_ to your fucking brother."

“You shouldn’t have this much red in your room,” Minho says, once again faced with that atrocity of a futon.

Jisung places a water bottle on the pallets he uses as a bedside table. “Why, it disrupts your feng shui?”

“It makes you anxious.” Minho presses the bandaged ball of his foot to the door to make his t-shirt hitch higher, exposing his upper thigh, the hem of his boxers. “Red makes it harder to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s what makes me anxious,” Jisung says, “my mattress. At least _mine_ has a frame.”

“But you live here." Minho doesn’t. “I don’t need one." Yet?

Minho crosses his arms, and they bulge. Where will Jisung look first?

“It’s not like you wouldn't be here all the time even if you moved back in with your parents.” Jisung stares at his mobile. “You know, Binnie’s been trying to make me turn into you...”

“Turn into me?”

Jisung looks up, but his eyes stop at Minho’s thighs. “This thing you two have, you’re like…little koalas, I swear.”

“Changbin was draped all over you in the kitchen yesterday, too,” Minho says. “You just pretend you don’t like it.”

Jisung leaves his mobile on the futon and drifts towards him. “Yeah, that’s him trying to make me be you. Cuddle your brother, he misses you.” Jisung backs him into the door. “Bet you miss _contact_ too,” he teases, lips grazing his neck. “Or did you have someone in Seoul?”

Instead of answering, Minho pulls him closer. Jisung hums, tilts his head, and kisses him.

It’s different, this time, without the threat of being caught. Jisung tastes like sprinkles, syrupy, and Minho wants more of him.

Fingers splay over his stomach when Jisung slides his hands under his t-shirt, tracing his muscles until they flutter against his hand.

Jisung brushes the tip of his tongue on his lower lip as if urging him to follow it, and they kiss like that, open-mouthed, until he hitches Minho’s thigh up just enough for him to feel his fingers dig in, just enough to force Minho on his tiptoes, unbalanced if not for his grip.

“Fuck…” Heat spreads across Minho’s face at the breathy tone of his own voice, as the younger pins him back harder, pressing their groins together.

Minho can’t remember the last time he’s been kissed like this.

His boxers are so tight the head of his cock distends the fabric when Minho glances down, pulsing.

Jisung chuckles and cups his jaw, thumb digging into his cheek. Minho grabs Jisung’s wrist to keep it in place, to keep Jisung forcing his jaw still. 

“Shhh,” Jisung says, leaning in and kissing him, and Minho deepens it, dragging his tongue against his, sliding his thigh higher to wrap it around Jisung’s waist, skin on skin.

Minho’s back slams onto the wood when Jisung jostles him against it. 

No way Changbin didn’t hear that.

“Changbin—” Minho forces out.

A tongue trails to a spot behind his ear, and air rushes from Minho’s lungs.

“Babe,” Jisung whispers, tipping his hips forward until the ridge of his cock presses right under the head of Minho’s. “If you say his name again while I'm this hard, I swear to God I’ll leave you here and go ride my fingers in your fucking air-mattress.”

Warmth spikes down Minho’s spine. He nods, then nods again, then nods one more time for emphasis.

Jisung smirks and presses a kiss to his cheek, then another to his lips. “Want a line?” He leans back. “We still have…two more? Three?”

  
Jisung scrapes his card against the glass of his Samsung. “Four _and a half_. Stonks meme.”

Each line is half as thick and half as long as cigarette. The last one is just a bump. “Four,” Minho corrects him. Jisung offers him a rolled up ten dollars note. “Stop with these polymer notes, too, it’s going to cut up our noses.”

"But the _style_.” Jisung chuckles. “If you watch Tarantino, there’s no way you’re not gonna want a fat note.”

"Until your septum collapses like that EastEnders woman. Maybe it's the numbness not letting us feel the cuts.”

“Sweet as.” Jisung brings the note to his nose and sniffs the small bump of powder. “ _Now_ it’s four.” He passes Minho his mobile. “These new tenners have The Man From Snowy River verses on ‘em, did you know that? Banjo Paterson? New for you, I mean, I think you moved before these new not—”

“I don’t want Paterson up my nose, we’re _home_ , roll literally anything else.” Minho pokes Jisung’s waist.

“ _You_ stand up and find us something else, then, princess,” Jisung says, voice low, more rushed than usual. Minho’s finally noticing the difference. “Or shut up and take it.”

Jisung’s tone make him want to part his legs a bit. Minho nods. “Fine, if you want to live your Wolf of Wall Street fantasy of _fat notes_ and cut yo—”

“If this was Wolf of Wall Street, I’d be racking lines off _you_ ,” Jisung cuts in.

Silence hangs.

Minho’s ears ring as his brain replays that over and over, and when he glances up at Jisung, the younger is staring back. 

Jisung stands from the futon. “Alright, let me open this.”

_Minho_ is the one who unfolds the futon, thank you, since Jisung takes way too long to. All Jisung does is cover it with black flat sheets. Minho rolls his eyes.

“What, you wanted me to fuck you in pastel bed linen, Linnie?” Jisung sits on the edge of his mattress, leaning back on his hands. His arms bulge under the low light, projecting shapes of shadows across his skin. “Fairy lights, canopy bed?”

Minho settles onto his lap, knees on both sides of his hips, warmth curling in his stomach at the way it feels so dirty to be like this with a man after so long.

He pushes Jisung back until he’s flat on the futon, shirtless and half-hard, and under him. “Candlelight, all that,” Minho says, “don’t I deserve it?”

“You deserve everything.” Jisung hums, looking up at him under rebel strands of his damp hair. “Where on me? All yours to choose.” He grins lazily at him, and extends his arms up by his ears as if offering himself.

Minho drags his hips over his cock just to see the way Jisung tilts his head back, baring his neck for him. It’s not a hard decision to make. He takes his shirt off and uses it to pat Jisung's clavicle dry, before sweeping one of the four lines from the phone onto it. 

The sight.

Jisung on black sheets, white dusting his skin. 

That thing about brains keeping some memories like pictures.

“Come on…” Jisung cants his hips up, and Minho circles his down so the ridge of Jisung’s cock slides right between his cheeks. “ _Fuck._ ”

Minho scrapes the card in the dip of Jisung’s collarbone to straighten the powder, then rolls the note tighter and does the line in one motion, scratching the polymer against Jisung skin to see if it’d cut.

It doesn’t.

But sometimes these notes _do_ cut.

The warm rush of powder slides down his throat, its bitter taste stamping Minho’s palate, spreading in his tongue. He bends over Jisung and crashes their lips together.

This kiss is harsher, more frantic, and Minho blames the coke. He brushes down Jisung’s chest, his arms, fingers shaking as Minho’s brain shouts about how irresponsible this is. 

That voice eventually mutes.

He trails his lips down Jisung’s neck, then licks up whatever powder he’s left on his skin. A grimace, then his tongue is numb, swollen, as are his teeth and his muscles, and Minho licks at his lips and every single touch’s dialled up.

Emboldened, Minho slides further down and runs his tongue over Jisung’s nipple, biting on it, circling his tongue around the bud.

Jisung's face is waxy calm. Breaking his composure feels like a challenge, now. So Minho sucks his nipple again, moaning at the taste of skin, his thoughts ringing like little static explosions.

Faint lights shimmer in through the venetian blinds, making Jisung’s nipple glint dark and shiny with spit. He grinds down harder on his cock again, groaning when Jisung ruts up against him.

Jisung’s fingers dig into his hips, forcing him still, cock hot and heavy and dragging against Minho’s hole, under three layers of fabric, until it burns with the friction. Minho clenches against it.

The world spins, his back hitting the mattress, and Minho gasps, lungs compressing.

“My turn,” Jisung grunts, sounding too fucked out for how little they’ve done.

“Where on me?” Minho echoes.

“Thighs,” Jisung says, raspy as if through his teeth. He kneels on the linoleum, glancing up at Minho as if to ask for permission.

“What, you want permission?” Minho grabs a handful of Jisung’s hair and pulls his face against his inner thigh.

Jisung moans, open-mouthed, his eyes shutting as Minho makes him drag his wet lips against the hem of his boxers.

Blood rushes at the way parting his legs like this makes Minho feel exposed. He drapes a leg over Jisung’s shoulder, the bandages of his heel scratching down his back.

Jisung’s teeth leaves a row of bruises on his thighs, red and shiny and splattered with bite marks.

Minho pinches his nostril shut, then snorts to unclog it, and coke slides down the back of his throat. Disgusting. His dick throbs. “Fuck you,” Minho says, “I’m gonna sober up and you’re still gonna be worshipping my thighs or what, _do it.”_

Jisung chuckles and bites the sensitive, soft skin below the seam of his boxers. The pain shoots straight to Minho’s length. 

Minho squeezes himself over the fabric, hips arching off the bed and into Jisung’s cheek.

Instead of moving away, Jisung lets Minho drag his clothed cock against his face, slipping his tongue out to let him feel how wet it is.

“You in a hurry?” Jisung asks in a whisper. He pulls back, removing Minho’s thighs from his shoulders and positioning them in the air. Minho takes a deep breath and tightens his muscles to keep his legs from lowering back to the mattress. “Don’t move.” Jisung’s eyes glint in challenge. “ _Don’t._ ”

Minho’s thighs strain with effort the longer Jisung takes to return. He’s doing it on _purpose,_ fuck him. Jisung only comes back when Minho’s muscles are burning so hot his knees are parallel to the mattress.

“Good,” Jisung says. He drops a condom and mint lube onto the futon, then grabs the backs of Minho’s knees to pin them down further. “ _Stay_ ,” he grunts, before sliding down to kneel between his legs again.

Minho’s cock kicks, forgotten, heat coiling in his stomach. He closes his eyes so as not to see the way Jisung smirks, trying to keep his thighs still for him.

“That’s good...” Jisung scrapes the plastic card above one of the bite marks he’s just left.

If Minho _trembles_ he’ll disrupt Jisung's line. He replays that mantra over and over, muscles straining tight, knuckles white on the flat sheets.

Jisung sniffs in a long line off each of his inner thighs.

Air rushes off Minho’s lungs when Jisung springs back up and kisses him, sugary and acidic. 

He pulls him closer like he can’t get enough, fuelled by this raw buzz that builds and builds and Jisung’s cock drags across his hole over their clothes.

Minho clenches so hard there’s no way Jisung didn’t feel it.

‘’Wanna get on your knees?’’ Jisung asks. He nips Minho’s lip, then leans back.

Minho stills for a moment, trying to process the question, brain too wired to properly function.

Instead of kneeling, he turns upside down so his chin points at Jisung, nape pressed against the side of the mattress. Perfect for Jisung to just…slide into his throat. Jisung cradles his neck. “You sure?”

Minho nods. He lowers Jisung’s dacks and underwear, and wraps a hand around the stiff base of his cock.

“Your throat must be so numb…” Jisung mutters, staring at him with half-lidded eyes. Minho slides his foreskin down and circles his tongue around the head, soaking it into his mouth, slicking Jisung’s cock until a long string of spit connects it to his lips when Minho leans back and strokes it. “Fuck my mouth later, too? Must feel so good...”

Instead of answering, Minho swallows his length again, grabbing the back of Jisung’s thighs to force him forward until he’s choking around the mouthful.

Jisung kneels closer to slide his cock in further, forcing Minho’s head still because he knows he can take it. Minho gags, cheeks blowing up then hollowing, and Jisung makes him take more and more, bit by bit.

His nails claw into the back of Jisung’s thighs. “Fuck,’’ Jisung groans, muscles tensing.

Minho’s jaw prickles despite the coke as Jisung’s shaft fills him, thrusting slowly and controlled. Not comfortable but it’s _hot_. Maybe _too_ controlled, still. The slick sounds of spit and skin are all Minho can hear.

Jisung grabs his jaw, forcing it down until Minho’s back is so arched only his shoulders and feet touch the futon. Fingers dig into his scalp, and Minho’s lungs tighten but he only has one nostril and it’s clogging up, too, with how much he’s drooling—Minho chokes.

Loud, ugly wet sounds around Jisung’s cock.

But his throat gouges further and Jisung slides in deeper, even, muttering pleads that only make Minho burn harder, and he takes it, eyes wet with tears dripping, _gushing_ past his lids.

He's so hard.

Jisung tips his hips forward and holds him there, immobile, cock stretching him as Minho tries to keep his teeth away, as he tries to keep at least a _wisp_ of air in his lungs.

Jisung traces the shape his cock distends on the skin of his neck, and Minho wants him to press down, fuck it, _choke him,_ his head is spinning. Minho could cum if Jisung just _squeezed_ a bit, jus—

Jisung slides out.

Minho coughs with the sudden abundance of air. He pants, gasping at nothing, face sticky with so much drool and precum it runs down both to his chin and to his hair. Minho sniffs, drying his tears with the shaky back of his hand.

“ _Fuck,_ baby,’’ Jisung whispers, sounding as strung out as Minho feels. He traces his wet cheek, swiping at the sticky mess. Minho’s ears ring so loud he barely hears him speak. ‘’You're okay? I—fuck, I’m _sorry_ …’’

“Mm-hm.” Minho’s lips are so numb he can’t feel them stretch, and he doesn’t trust his voice to not crack. He takes a long sip of water from Jisung’s bottle when the younger offers it to him. “I thought you were gonna cum...”

Jisung hasn’t moved a muscle. “Yeah…me too.” His eyes look glassy.

“Again.” Minho lies back. Giving in to himself, he rubs the heel of his palm against his straining cock, and his legs tremble, knees parting open.

“I almost choked you—”

He grabs the meaty part of Jisung’s bum and pulls him closer until his shaft is brushing his lips again. “Yeah.” Minho grins. “Choke me.”

Jisung groans at that, and Minho slides two fingers between his cheeks just to see how he’d react. Jisung immediately reaches for the lube, uncaps it, then pours it onto his hand and reaches behind himself to coat Minho’s fingers with it.

“A finger?”

Jisung moves one of his knees up to rest beside Minho’s shoulder on the futon, spreading his legs for him. “More…”

“How many?” Minho rubs the pads of his fingers against his clenched entrance and he feels Jisung quiver. “Tell me…”

Minho slides his index in and Jisung’s muscles let it happen, opening up that easily for him. He drags it out, then, and back in, slowly, the squelch of lube wet and lewd around them, Minho’s groin simmers with heat.

“Mmhm, one m-more—" Jisung groans, both hands curling on Minho’s pecs to keep himself upright. He drags his hips forward so far he almost straddles his face. “Fuck, just—y-yeah, please…”

Minho pushes two of his fingers in, curling them down to pressure his walls open from inside. In response, Jisung writhes, whimpering a high-pitched sound, the skin of his arse flushed from how tightly Minho grips at it. The head of his cock brushes against Minho’s cheek and he gives it a kittenish lick.

“T-that’s good, f-fuck—”

“Yeah?” Minho wants to make it better. 

He glides his fingers in and out, thumb rubbing over Jisung’s rim, and sucks one of his balls into his mouth to soak it with spit.

Jisung rocks his hips into the feeling, and Minho uses his free hand to coax him into bringing his other knee up on the futon, to straddle his face. Jisung does it, leaning his weight on Minho’s chest and pressing down. “I-I'm too heavy to...”

Minho trails his tongue up his perineum, then pushes it flat and wet over his hole, making it quiver against him.

Jisung’s fingers curl on his chest as Minho thumbs his cheeks apart and slides his tongue in, out, around his rim, _pressing_. He slips his thumbs in just for the extra stretch, just to feel the way he clenches around him. Jisung stutters a moan and pushes his arse harder against Minho’s face, and and he licks at him, moaning at the way mint lube prickles his tongue.

Too soon, Jisung pushes Minho’s hands off him and rolls away to lie on the mattress, chest heaving.

“What?” Minho croaks out, heart thumping loud in his ears, face so drenched with lube and spit his eyelashes are wet. “You okay?”

Jisung grins. “Come here...your turn.”

Minho lays on his back, precum leaking steadily from his slit as Jisung curls three fingers inside him. “Y-yeah,” he groans, throat raw. He’s never this loud, except when he’s being stretched open.

“Like that?” Jisung grazes his prostate and Minho whimpers, abs tensing, cock pulsing against it. Precum trails onto the soft dips of his muscle.

Jisung bends down and pins his thigh to the mattress, then licks right where his fingers stretch Minho’s rim open. His tongue flexes against his ridged walls as he forces the tip inside.

Minho’s cock dribbles wet and shiny, kicking hard against his lower belly. Jisung hauls him closer to his face and slides in deeper, and heat spikes up his groin at each flick of his tongue. “F-fuck me?”

He _hates_ how weak he sounds. Jisung seems to love it.

“Say that again,” Jisung pulls away to say, then delves in one more time to suck around Minho’s puffy, red hole.

“Fuck me…” Minho repeats, weaker, and Jisung takes his fingers out but tongues him a bit more, until Minho’s grabbing his hair to forcibly tug him away. “Come on—”

“I only have one condom,” Jisung says, reaching for the packet. Minho nods, rocking his hips up because he’s buzzing with energy that makes him want _more_ , an urgent, raw prickling under his skin. 

“Yeah, one’s enough...”

A drop of precum slides down Minho’s flushed, swollen dick, but he refuses to touch himself, muscles tightening with need, sweat cooling on his skin.

Jisung rolls the condom down and strokes his cock, adding too much lube to it, but maybe he likes it that wet. Minho, however, likes that little pinch of hurt of being _slightly_ underlubed.

“You plan on fucking me today, or...” Minho snaps, throwing an arm over his eyes to ignore Jisung. Fuck him. His hole clenches around nothing.

“You have one line left.”

Minho hums but keeps still.

A beat later, a finger nudges at his nostril, smelling of paint thinner, _not_ of Play Doh. Jisung presses his other nostril shut for him, and Minho sniffs in.

The rush is immediate. A smooth wave sparks electric down his limbs. 

“Open up,” Jisung says, and Minho parts his lips, accepting it, _wanting_ Jisung to spread it onto his gums and his tongue, to press it in until Minho’s mouth is so numb all he feels is the blood pulsing.

Minho’s breath hitches when the blunt head of Jisung’s cock presses against his entrance. He’s so loose and lubed up the tip slips in, and Jisung hums a low sound, forcing his thighs wider apart. 

Minho’s so sensitive the air cooling the precum in his dick is enough to make his hips jerk up.

Jisung sinks deeper, and Minho reacts viscerally, responsive to the point it’s obscene, as Jisung’s cock curves inside him and forces him open. 

Minho exhales, loud and shaky, trembling at the feeling of being filled up this good, of Jisung kissing his collarbones, murmuring a string of ‘’fuck, so _good_ ,’’ to the skin there.

It barely stings, the stretch. So good Minho can’t help but wrap his calves around Jisung to force him to move, to do _something_ because he wants it hard and fast and Jisung’s not fucking _moving_. “Baby…I don’t wanna hurt you."

Minho wants to punch him.

Literally throw him down and punch his face in, then sit on his fucking cock and ride him quiet.

It _doesn't_ hurt. His hole flutters, pulling Jisung in deeper, and Jisung’s still not _moving_.

“Fuck you,” Minho mutters, face hot with arousal. “Just fuck me…” His heart beats so loud Jisung might hear it. He circles his hips, sliding down and up Jisung’s shaft as much as he manages to with his thighs being held open.

“Yeah?” Jisung’s voice buzzes with threat.

He takes an audible breath, then jostles Minho onto his cock, burying his whole length inside him, skewering him on his dick. The manhandling makes Minho’s head float, and he groans. _“Y-yeah.”_

“You want me rough?” Jisung snaps his hips, and the force drives Minho higher up on the bed, legs sliping farther apart. He slaps Minho’s thigh, and his hole clenches so hard Jisung stops for a moment to take a deep breath and feel it.

Jisung leans down and bites the curve of his shoulder, hipbones digging into his arse, cock stretching him deep. “Kinky,” he says, and Minho smirks.

The way Jisung leans over him changes how his cock hits and now Minho feels the stretch to his bones. His thighs twitch, teeth clashing together as he tries to keep his noises down. A _bit_ down, at least. _”Please.”_

Once again, Jisung smacks his thigh, and Minho pushes up against him with a breathless moan. 

“Mm, you do like that,” Jisung groans appreciatively, fucking into him rougher, and Minho’s toes curl up against his back, hole spasming as he says fuck it and touches his cock, muffling his sounds by chewing on his lower lip. “Fuck, you’re so _wet._ ”

Jisung's close, Minho knows it, gasps catching and hitching before they spill past his lips. Minho’s belly tightens. He slides his hands down Jisung's body and drags his nails across his waistline.

Little desperate moans leave Jisung’s lips at that, at each hard snap of his hips. 

Minho claws his nails down to his arse, forcing him even deeper inside, and Jisung thrusts extra hard, rhythm gone. Pinned down, Minho arches his back, thighs clamping around Jisung and quivering as they squeeze him in.

“N-nails,” Jisung pleads, breathless, smacking Minho’s thigh just to make him _listen_.

His pace turns brutal again, hips snapping in hard and fast, and Minho’s gonna burst if he so much as _touches_ himself.

He rakes his nails down Jisung’s back, and his thrusts falter, cock jerking out of sync. “Mmhm, y-yeah...,” Jisung moans again, brows pinched, and Minho wants to hear that over and over again. “M-more...do t-that."

He writhes off the futon, trying to bury Jisung’s cock deeper inside himself, his balls slapping against him—skin on skin, hard and just that _bit_ painful now, just the way Minho likes it. 

Minho rolls his hips up, angling it the best way he can while pinned beneath Jisung. His cock slides against his spot, and Minho’s head fills with white heat. “ _F-fuck_ , I'm gonna—"

He claws his nails down Jisung’s chest, hard, digging in, and Jisung _freezes._

His cock slides out and ruts uselessly against Minho’s inner thigh.

“Mmm, I—f-fuck…” Jisung grips the base of his shaft and guides it back in, face so flushed it burns pink.

He fucks him again, picking up his pace, but then Minho scrapes a nail against his nipple and he halts, still buried inside him, cock pulsing deep, kicking against his walls. 

At least now it's inside him.

“Come on…” Minho grunts, sounding as desperate as he feels, kicking Jisung with his shin to try and make him _move_. “Fuck, you’re hot like this but you’re _useless...”_

Jisung moans loud at that, jaw falling open, sweat dripping from his hair onto Minho’s chest as he gives one final hard thrust and collapses over his chest, mewling low whimpers that catch on his throat before they spill out.

Minho’s hole burns with friction, spread open for too long. “Did you cum?”

Jisung shakes his head, eyes squinted as if he’d cry if he looked at Minho, body dropping limp over his, pinning him down under his weight. 

“N-no, I—,” Jisung whines, then takes a deep breath and tries again to speak clearly. “I…c-can’t, s-sorry…” He slips out, cock still hard and heavy, and Minho’s hole quivers with the emptiness. “I’m...I—you—”

“Can I ride you?” Minho doesn’t wait for an answer, gathering all his strength and inverting their positions. He takes in big gulps of air, legs trembling as he straddles the younger. “Can I?”

Jisung nods, breathless, hands limp on Minho’s thighs.

Holding the condom in place, Minho fits the head of his cock to his rim, sliding it in then taking it out again just to feel the stretch, just to feel the way his hole gives. Jisung's chest heaves, eyes closed, upper lip curling.

Giving in, Minho lets gravity pull him down until he’s flush with Jisung’s lap. 

He forces the younger’s wrists up to frame his head, then bends down on his elbows, crowding over Jisung as his hole sucks his cock in. 

Minho circles his hips up and down, and it feels like being split open all over again, deeper, so deep, and the head nudges against his spot, and Minho's cock gushes out precum, so much it trickles to Jisung's skin.

“L-look at it,” Minho says, twisting his fingers in Jisung’s hair and _pulling_ , forcing his chin to his chest as he makes Jisung _look_ at the way his thick cock stretches him open. 

Jisung’s panting turns into gasps, then, shaky whines leaving his lips, and Minho rakes his nails down his chest again, five angry red trail marks, and Jisung’s spine arches off the bed, hips stuttering up, cock pulsing, head pulled backwards by Minho’s tight grip on his hair.

Spine tense like taut wire, Jisung spills into the condom, grimacing like he can’t stop coming, and Minho clenches around him just to feel the way his cock pulses.

He slumps back down, pliant under Minho.

Minho pumps his own hard cock, thumbing the slit to spread slick all over it, sliding his fist up and down, breath quickening but now it’s _not enough._

Minho grinds lazily against Jisung’s limp dick, until the boy is shaking so hard from overstimulation Minho feels sorry for him.

Jisung drags his hand to his hard cock, but Minho catches his wrist in the air, then pins it onto the mattress. “No?”

Minho lets out a long breath. “I don’t think I can come,” he says, trying to make his voice firm despite his liquid limbs.

Jisung nods, eyes watery. “Sorry…”

Minho slides down his body and tangles his legs with Jisung’s, laying his head on his chest, hugging his waist. “Not your fault, babe, it’s just…let me come down off coke a bit.”

Ear to his heart, Minho tries to regulate his breathing to Jisung's.

“Want a blunt?” Jisung asks.

Smoke leaves Jisung’s lips in twirly wisps that undulate, that change direction, like someone’s painting them in real-time. 

Minho’s blunt high still has a wide-awake hue to it.

Jisung’s lying on his back, necklace glittering gold, and he pulls Minho's thigh closer until it drapes over his lower belly, fingers digging in and massaging the spot where his leg meets his arse.

Minho’s cock hasn’t gone all the way down yet, not nearly, not with the way Jisung almost-touches him, with this almost-there feel to it. He ruts his half-hard cock softly against the side of Jisung’s hips. 

“Finger me?” Minho asks, refusing to look up. “Just a bit...” Jisung puts out the blunt in the empty tin of cherry Coke by the futon, then grabs the lube and drenches his fingers with it. Way too much. “Come on…no way I’m not wet still, you don’t need that.”

Jisung ignores him and slips his hand down to cup Minho's balls, squeezing lightly and making him cant his hips forward. He nudges over his rim, dipping a finger in, then sliding its pad across the slippery mess all over his entrance. 

Two fingers slip in at once, crooking and pressing against the ridged muscle of his walls. Minho whimpers low on his raw throat.

“Just fingers? Or—” Jisung’s fingers slide out and drag hard against his rim, until Minho clenches before fluttering loose and letting them in again. Minho rubs his thigh against Jisung’s hardening length, pressing it down until he hears Jisung’s breaths catch. “No condom, though...you want to?”

On a whim, Minho peels his body from Jisung’s and twists around, turning his back to him, grabbing Jisung’s waist from behind himself to pull him against his arse. “Just—you don’t have to _do_ anything, I swear, I’ll—"

Jisung shushes him, fitting his warm chest to his back. He hitches Minho’s thigh higher on the mattress so he can slide his cock in sideways. “Let me…”

Minho’s neglected cock dribbles precum into the sheets, as Jisung slowly eases himself back into his clenching heat. The thought of his bare cock inside of him makes Minho’s head burn.

“Please don’t go slow...” He angles up for Jisung to slide deeper, and the younger’s hands dig into him to a point where it might bruise. “I’m loose enough, just—please..."

Jisung thrusts in slow and careful despite Minho's pleading. 

After what feels like hours, Jisung grabs the back of his knee and pulls Minho’s leg into the air, hitting deeper and quickening his pace until he’s pounding harder and harder, letting out little streams of breath against his neck.

Grunting, Minho pumps his cock, fast and slick from how much he’s gushing precum, the veins engorged and matching the ones in his hand, his cock flushed dark and bulging, kicking against his wet palm. 

Jisung’s fingers rub right where his dick is buried inside him, the rim puffy and red, stretched around his girth, and Minho whimpers, throwing his head back over his shoulder.

No questions asked, Jisung slips the tip of his finger in, and Minho's hole is dripping so wet it goes in up to the knuckle like it’s _nothing._ “Y-yeah, fuck, _fill me_ ,” Minho pleads, “ _more,_ m-more,” and it’s too loud, but it’s not like it matters with the way their skin slap together, the way their ragged breathing fill the chilly air.

Minho rolls his hips up into his own slick fist, then back onto Jisung’s cock and it’s hot, _so hot,_ his throat is too raw to scream, so he pants, louder and louder. 

When Jisung dips in a second finger, Minho’s body tenses at the pain, at the raw stretch of getting _filled,_ his rim taut and red, catching onto his knuckles as they slip in and out of him, as they dip in to rub hard on his walls from inside. 

“T-there— _fuck,_ ” Minho mumbles, lost and submissive, lips parted, his legs spread, head flying back as Jisung grazes his prostate over and over again. “Y-yeah…” he cries, body curling in on himself as waves of flashing heat take over, as Minho slams himself back onto Jisung’s cock and his fingers.

He tethers the edge for so long it starts to slip, eyelids prickling, his face hot with shame and arousal, and Minho needs just a _bit_ more, just to force it out of him, he—

Minho drags Jisung’s hand to his own throat and presses it in, squeezing until he’s choking him, until he can’t _breathe_. 

Heat tightens all around him, no air, and Jisung's behind and inside him, stretching, and his eyesight darkens, head foggy, his toes curling until Minho’s whole body is weightless as Jisung pounds him harder, his fingers still and _pressing_ on his prostate, warm blood like acid filling his veins.

Minho’s gasping around nothing, spiralling, and Jisung chokes him harder, slamming his cock into him, and there’s so much _pressure_ \--

“So _pretty_ like this.” Jisung jerks his hand from his neck and into Minho's hair and he pulls on it, forcing his spine to bend back.

Minho cries out pathetically as air rushes into his lungs, into his head, and his hole clenches so tight Jisung can’t move.

He's spasmming around him, whole body shaking, untwisting the tight knots of pleasure in his stomach as he comes all over himself. Thick white ropes coat the dips of his abs, spurting out so much and so far it reaches his chest.

The world behind his lids flash white, soundless, a long second of nothingness where Minho just floats.

Jisung’s fingers slip out of him with a wet noise and that brings him back.

Minho pants, blinking at the ceiling, his limbs spent and boneless as Jisung slips his hard cock out of him. “ _Stay_ ,” Minho pleads, instantly, grabbing Jisung’s hips and making him halt, the head of his cock nudging Minho’s rim again.

“What?” Jisung sounds exhausted, whimpering against his neck. His cock lays red and erect and Minho wraps a hand around it and guides it back inside. “Lin, I don’t think I can cum again…”

“Y-yeah, just—” Minho just wants to feel the stretch a bit more. The pressure. Just a bit. “Just lay down with me? And stay inside…”

They’re awake.

The sound of their breathing crawls into the air like a creeping vine growing, towering over them more than the trees outside did.

Minho wishes the futon would smother him, just so he’d stop pretending to sleep.

He lays on his side—the twill of the futon brushes his arm where the flat sheets had come off, and Jisung’s gold locket is a cold spot on his back.

When Jisung shifts, his cock shifts inside him, and Minho’s breath hitches. He grips the back of Jisung’s thigh, pulling him in, trying to tell him to _stay._

“Mm, morning...” Jisung hums drowsily into the nape of Minho’s neck, then he slides out of him in a swift motion, thin fingers keeping Minho’s cheeks spread. “I’m gonna make toast.”

Heat coils in Minho’s stomach at the way his puffy hole flutters open, exposed. “I’m not hungry,” he says.

“But we gotta eat.” Jisung leans back and slaps Minho’s thigh softly, soothing over the sting right after. “I bought a whole pack of bread just so we'd stop stealing Binnie’s...we _gotta_.” Jisung rolls onto his back, then stretches his arms. “I’ll be back in five, I swear.”

Minho is left cold.

Jisung returns with wet hair and fresh skin, droplets of water trailing his collarbones. The angry red lines Minho left down his chest are flushed pink from the shower heat.

“Up, Linnie...the sheets,” he settles a mug of hot Milo and a tupperware lid with toasts on his bedside pallets. Minho could make him an _actual_ table, he’s brought his circular saw. It’s in his untouched luggage.

Instead of only removing the sheets, Jisung changes them, leaving the futon open as a bed. Minho traces his index over a circular discoloration on the pallet. “You won't eat?”

“I did, in the kitchen,” Jisung says. Maybe it’s a lie, Minho wouldn't know. “These ones are for you.”

Minho’s chest tightens. “Thanks...”

Looking at toast feels like looking at sand.

Jisung lights their half-smoked blunt and lays back onto the bed. “I swear I put, like—five kg of butter, just how you like it, it’s _good_ … _one_ bite?”

Minho takes a bite.

It’s malty and greasy and actually good, but it feels like eating on a bursting full stomach. His throat tenses, and Minho can’t swallow. He takes a sip of hot chocolate. The ceramic mug burns the pads of his fingers.

When Minho’s right on the limbo between awake and asleep, a hair width away from drifting, Jisung removes his arms from his waist and Minho stirs back into conscience.

"Sorry," Jisung says. Minho blinks his eyes open, eyelids crackly and stiff. He pats the empty bed behind him before reality sinks in. "I said I'd go skate with Chris..." Pale gold daylight casts over Jisung’s skin as he stands, hair still wet from his shower. "You wanna come with?"

Minho clears his throat, rubs his eyes. He shakes his head as slowly as he can.

“Then you won't mind?”

A little.

"Nah,” Minho lies. "Feel free." His throat thickens. "Have fun..."

Jisung leans in again, nips at his earlobe, tugs at it. Minho shudders a bit. Tries to hide it.

"Okay," Jisung says. "Grab a blunt if your comedown sucks, yeah? Or all of ‘em, I mean." He kisses the side of Minho’s neck, his chest still flushed pink. "See you..."

The sun throws a pattern onto the mattress as Jisung’s drawers creak open, as they shut close. The door clicks, then it's quiet. Minho's eyes sting. He's tired, it's morning.

He can't sleep.

Minho's still up, buzzing with these emotions that always mess him up. Smoking, this time, just because he misses his past self. Maybe he's that stuck. Maybe this might slow him enough to pass out. 

“Have you eaten?” is the first thing Changbin asks when he opens his door to find Minho wrapped in Jisung’s sheets, legs so wobbly he barely stands. “You look like a zombie.”

Minho feels like one, too. Like he's dragged himself all the way from Jisung’s bed. Crawled there. He kind of did.

“Jisung texted to know if you’ve eaten…” Changbin repeats, tilting his head. “My brain doesn’t count, please, don’t walking-dead me.”

Minho could laugh at that. He doesn’t. Changbin frowns.

His new room looks like his old one: worn-but-usable clothes piling on his gaming chair, his bed unmade, doona bunched over his pillow and compressed as if Changbin’s been lying on top of it.

Minho takes a deep breath and the air weights down his lungs.

Changbin drifts to his bed, leaving the door open for Minho to walk in if he wants to, but Minho’s still at the threshold. “Was it you with Jisung, all night?” Changbin asks, eyebrows raised judgingly. “ _Wild._ ”

Minho rests his head on the door frame. “I'm sorry,” he mutters, staring ahead with glassy, lethargic eyes.

"My earplugs are noise-cancelling.”

“I mean about your bike…”

“Jisung always steals it, whatever, I've got my car,” Changbin says. Minho sniffs. His bedroom always smells of vanilla whey and gym clothes, but Minho’s nose is too clogged to feel it.

Minho shuts his eyes, chest hollowing further, to a point where it feels like he’s so empty his body is inside out. “I bought you a new bike,” he murmurs. That’s literally all Minho has managed to, today.

Changbin takes a moment to answer, gathering the scattered photocopies of schoolwork he'd left all over his bed. “Weren’t you saving money for your art stuff?”

Minho’s iPad barely holds a charge. “You're more important,” he mutters. It’s not a lie, yet it’s monotone, his syllables flat.

“I feel like I'm missing something,” Changbin says. He shuffles, then takes his doona from under his head, straightening it over his body. “Why did you buy me a new bike, brother, what am I gonna do with it?”

Minho shrugs. “’cos it was my fault…”

Changbin’s mobile vibrates, and he pats the bed for it, almost dropping the phone to the floor. Minho leans against the door frame. Changbin hums. “Why is Jisung under the impression…” he drags his gaze to Minho. “—that my bike got stolen last night?”

“Because...”

“I put it in the boot of my car yesterday, you know that, right? I _told_ you, you forgot? I said I wished you’d _crawl home?”_

The world slows. Minho can’t speak. His eyelids feel gummy, chest tight and heavy and once the first tear breaks, the rest follows, he can’t stop as they drain through him. As they pull him down.

Minho slumps on the door frame, his shoulders sliding until, before he collapses, Changbin wraps a strong arm around him and drags Minho to his bed.

“We could just bike around like we used to. If we’ve got two now…you could bring Jisung along.” Changbin hums. “Not if you two will start pashing in front of me all the time, now, then _don’t._ ”

“We won’t...” Minho mumbles. He pokes Changbin’s bicep, and the muscle barely dips. 

"Sure," Changbin says, then he moans. “ _Jisung, y-yeah, fuck, fill me_. He's not even that big, your dick must be tiny," he chuckles, kicking his shin in a way that he must think is a nudge. "Wait till you see Chris's, it’d _rip_ you open.”

Minho hums. Usually he would have laughed.

Changbin purses his lips the way he does, Minho knows, when he's biting his tongue. “What happened between you two? I thought you’d be together today.”

“He doesn’t wanna fuck because he’s too busy skateboarding,” Minho says. “What are we, twelve? I’m too old for this shit.” The words sound fake, forced out. Like it’s someone else speaking.

“You poured your drink on him and called him a useless cocksucker because he wouldn’t give you a ride home…on his skateboard.” Changbin nods to his phone, as if to say _I know because he texted_. 

“What did you say to him?” Minho asks. “Yesterday.”

“I said...he deserved better. Than you.” Changbin scoots down and rests his forehead on Minho's chest so they don't have to look at each other when he asks, "how does it feel, being back home?"

He likes it, the way Changbin tries, but sometimes Minho’s too heavy to grasp what things really feel like. His eyes sting. 

Minho opens his mouth, then closes it, chest sinking. Changbin holds him, and his hugs are still the tightest. "You’re not a robot, brother," Changbin mutters, offering him an earbud. “It's okay to...you know.”

Minho takes it.

He likes how they talk without talking, hell, he even likes when they fight so he doesn't always have to like him. Still, he _does,_ and Changbin's like him. Laconic conversations. "Music?"

"True crime, Brisbane. A girl."

"Found alive?"

"In a river...sorry.”

"Boyfriend did it?"

"Ex." Changbin shakes his head. "Fifty-seven wounds to her chest."

"Knife?"

Changbin rewinds the podcast so Minho won't feel lost, then he glares at him with wide eyes and says, " _axe."_

When Changbin’s breathing evens, Minho takes his mobile and pauses the podcast. At the list of recent searches, just like Minho expected, he finds Versace and clicks play.

Changbin hums back into consciousness. "You?” He opens one eye. “Drake?"

"It’s a pterodactyl rap, it’s special,” Minho says, deadpan, biting back a smile.

"Dactylic." Changbin laughs, and his shoulders quiver slightly against Minho. "So...Jisung? Teaching you metres? He’s gonna ask for your hand, he hates talking about it to people who don’t care for it.”

“I care—”

“About rap?”

Minho’s chest sinks a bit again, heavy. His eyelids burn and this time, he’s not sure _why_.

Changbin pries his hands off his face, eyes wide and confused. “You never cry…”

“Just coming down…”

“What were you on, last night?” Changbin asks. “Caps?” Minho shakes his head. “Do I wanna know?” Shakes his head. “Should I worry?”

“I’m not doing it again,” Minho says. These comedowns are never worth it.

Changbin sighs and drapes a heavy arm over his waist. “Come here.” He scoots closer to him until Minho doesn’t know where he ends and where Changbin starts. “You shouldn't be alone…why did he leave you alone.”

“Hey...Binnie said you cried?” Jisung asks, closing the door as he enters his own room. “I’m sorry.”

Minho sighs. “He tells you too much.”

Jisung puts away his backpack and his board, then joins Minho on the futon. “We're friends.”

“Are _we?_ ”

“You wanna be friends?” Jisung asks. “Are we _kissing_ friends?”

After the night before, this question sounds extremely understated. Minho laughs. “Do you want a kiss? That’s cute.”

“More than one, but...”

Jisung grunts in surprise when Minho pushes him back until he’s flat on the unfolded futon, then he leans in and kisses him. 

They do that for long, just feeling the warmth of skin.

Then, Jisung parts their lips and pulls his neck back, wearing a serious expression, toying with the hem of his oversized shirt. ‘’I’m sorry about leaving you,’’ he says, “and about...I don’t know.”

Minho hums. “We should talk more about stuff, maybe, but...it’s okay.”

It takes a moment before the younger gets it, but when he does, he gives Minho a fond look. Jisung tucks a strand behind his ear, then slides his hand to his nape and drags him down for another long kiss.

They kiss until they're half-hard, until Jisung’s lips are swollen red, and Minho’s pressing him into the mattress, and the younger parts his legs to let him.

When Minho’s hand slides to his arse, Jisung chuckles into his mouth and pushes it away, saying, “ _this_ is a _ga_ ted com _mu_ nity, _please_ get the _fuck_ off the _pro_ perty.” Jisung laughs, leaning back into the mattress. “Sorry,” he says, eyes crinkling at Minho, “I _had_ to, I'm _so_ sorry.”

But Minho’s listened to this fucking song way too much today, so he drags his hand to Jisung’s butt again and grabs it, lips trailing to his ear. “ _That_ must be _chan_ ging cause _I'm_ at the _top_ and ain't _no_ one on _top_ of me.”

Jisung jerks his head back to gawk at Minho, mouth dropping, then playfully swats at his shoulder.

He laughs and Jisung twists them around until Minho’s back hits the mattress, harder than he expected. His dick gives a lazy twitch at the display of strength.

“ _Li_ no be _wan_ ting a _verse_ for a _verse_ but mate, _that's_ not a _swap_ to me…”

‘’You’re so _good_ at this, fuck,’’ Jisung breathes out, low-pitched, as Minho traces his tongue around the head of his cock. 

_Anapaest_ , Minho's brain supplies, uselessly. He strokes him and bobs his head to take more in, giving it a lasting, wet suck. Jisung’s breaths quicken.

Minho shuffles his knees wider on the linoleum, tracing an apparent vein with the tip of his tongue, taking his time.

Jisung brushes fingers through his hair, far gentler than last night, which is good, because Minho’s scalp still stings. In a good way.

He pulls back with a wet sound, and Jisung bends down to kiss him, sliding his tongue against his like he wants to taste himself. 

Then, Minho sits beside him and pulls Jisung to his lap, sliding a hand up his skateboarding t-shirt that is so long it looks like a dress, really, bunching up, covering his crotch.

His legs look so soft underneath it.

“I’ll fuck you if you want me to,” Minho says against his lips, and his hand brushes over his cock, over the hem of his shirt, feeling the shape through the fabric, “do you?”

Jisung nods, wetting his lips.

Soon, his eyes are scrunched shut, body arching on his lap as Minho fingers him open just like he’d done last night. Minho leans in and kisses his jaw, his collarbone, kisses everywhere he can reach.

When he slips a third finger in, Jisung’s body tenses, rim clenching and resisting the stretch. 

Minho wants to be inside him, wants him squeezing around him just like that, so withdraws his hands and gets more lube because he knows Jisung likes it.

“Did you buy condoms?” Minho drags his shorts down, and he’s so hard his cock catches on the waistband.

Jisung looks caught. “Yeah…” 

Minho hauls him closer to his chest and Jisung can’t keep his hands off it, brushing his nipples, tracing the line of his pecs.

As he positions him over his cock, their eyes meet. “Do you want to go get them?” 

There’s a long pause, in which Jisung studies the futon. “...I could.”

Hands framing his hips, Minho spreads Jisung’s cheeks apart, t-shirt and all, and the head of his cock brushes his entrance, lubed but bare. He drags the tip harder against Jisung’s wet hole and the boy shudders in his lap. 

“You _could...”_ Minho lines his cock so that the head nudges into his rim, stretching it just a bit, and Jisung’s smile falters, brows narrowing, focused, his hands grasping his shoulders.

“Yeah?” Minho asks. Their foreheads touch.

Jisung nods, breathless. “Come inside me,’’ he jokes, a mood breaker.

Minho chuckles. “Sure.” 

He slides his dick over Jisung’s hole, dipping it in just to feel it give, then taking it out.

Jisung moves his hand threateningly close to his throat, and Minho bunches his t-shirt up just enough they both see the marks he’s left on his torso last night.

Minho smirks. Heat coils in his groin, twisting.

When he lines his cock to Jisung’s entrance this time, the younger lowers himself until the whole head slips in, forcing his tight ring of muscles open around it.

The breach makes him clench, but Jisung takes it, holding his breath and sinking down, deeper until the Minho's shaft is buried to the base, curving inside him. It's a bit overwhelming. How tight he is, the resistance.

Minho reaches between them just to feel the way Jisung’s hole tightens around his cock, how warm he is, sucking him in. Wet. He thumbs at his perineum, massaging the skin, and Jisung pants against his temples, fluttering.

Waves of warmth spread from the pressure around his dick. Minho grasps his arse and pulls him up until only the head is inside, then Jisung pushes down slowly, enveloping his cock in tight, slick heat, and they create a rhythm.

It’s not enough. 

Jisung blinks as if slipping out of a trance when Minho hauls him up.

For a moment it’s all awkward limbs, but then Minho directs him like he had done before, throwing Jisung onto the futon and then sliding on top of him, back inside, in one fluid motion. 

The pace picks up, and it’s different when Minho is in control, because Jisung is strong but Minho's more muscular, they both know it.

He pistons his hips and leans back, steadying Jisung before him, pounding until Jisung can barely mumble a “deeper,” the filthy sound of skin on skin too loud in the room.

Jisung’s all lean muscle beneath him, shoulders tense as he fucks him, panting, pumping his own dick. His hole clenches every time he thumbs at the head and his hips jerk, sucking Minho in, spasmming around his cock.

“F—fuck.” Minho grunts, stopping to press in as deep as he can go before continuing. Jisung wraps a weak hand around his neck, and Minho stutters, losing his rhythm.

Pleasure shoots down as he bucks hard into Jisung’s twitching hole, balls slapping against his rim, cock pulsing deep inside him when Jisung _squeezes_ his throat, and it doesn’t cut his air flow but his vision darkens—so much pressure it feels like he’s imploding.

Minho’s thighs burns, lower abs, _everything,_ and he could hold back, but after last night, he just wants to come easy, like this. 

Pinning Jisung down, Minho leans over him, knees digging into the mattress, and Jisung wraps his legs around him, pulling him in deeper, sliding his hand from his throat to tangle in his hair and tug at it.

Minho presses him down onto the futon one last time, muscles tightening as he plunges his cock in and _stays there,_ coming buried inside him, coating his walls with cum. Minho grunts, anticipating the sight of it trickling down his thin thighs, visible past the hem of his large t-shirt.

 _‘’Fuck._ ’’ Minho’s out of air as he pulls out. 

He slides down to suck Jisung’s cock again, but the younger stops him.

“Lie down,” Jisung says, rushed. “On your back.” Minho does. “C-close your eyes.” 

Seconds later, warm liquid spurts over the bridge of his nose, and across his chin, his cheeks, lips, dripping all over his face, and Minho parts his lips to taste it, thinking about the image he makes—teary eyed and flushed, cum dribbling down his skin and him _lapping_ at it.

Jisung holds Minho’s jaw still as the last drops leave his slit, and he sticks out his tongue to lick at his cockhead.

Then, Jisung takes off his t-shirt to wipe the stickness off his thighs and off Minho's face.

Minho scoots up next to him, feeling like he could fall asleep right there, with Jisung lying on his chest and fiddling with his nipple, his foot tap- _tap_ -tapping the mattress. “Can I sleep like this?”

“You’re going to sleep?”

“Eventually,” Jisung says. “Can I?”

“Why do you like my chest so much?”

“Your _tits._ ” Jisung laughs. “I know you and Binnie don’t share blood, but...” Jisung squeezes his pecs, measuring it in his hand, feeling the weight of his muscle. “...the family resemblance.”

For obvious reasons, Minho changes the subject. “What’s with the blank poster?”

Jisung playfully nips at his nipple. “What’s with it?”

“Didn’t take you for the Warhol’s Invisible Sculpture type.”

“No idea what that means,” Jisung says. “But I mean, it’s not that deep.”

Minho untangles himself from Jisung, sighing, and goes to stand up. “I’m going to take it down, then…if it’s just a poster.”

Fuck it.

That’s his last try.

Maybe it _is_ just a poster.

Jisung grabs his forearm and pulls him back to bed, wrapping a leg around him to make him stay. “I punched the wall,” he whispers like a confession.

Minho takes a few seconds to process that. “Which wall?”

When it dawns onto him, he shoves Jisung’s legs to the side and marches towards the poster, then pinches one of its edges and pulls it.

He peeks behind it.

Light pours in through a fist-sized hole on the pistacchio plasterboard. Minho’s eyebrows shoot up. “ _Why?_ ”

“It wasn’t even important—I can't even remember _why,_ that’s how unimportant.”

“So you just got up and put your fucking fist through the wall?”

“Yeah, _once_ ,” Jisung says, a slow grin spreading on his face. “I sobbed to ground with my back sliding against a wall, too, once. Everyone should do at least one of those.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“ _Extremely._ It's like you’re in a movie. You ever punched a wall?”

“No.”

“Good on you, don’t. Boxer's fracture, all that shit. And now I have a fucking _blank poster._ ” Jisung makes grabby hands at Minho and pulls him back to the bed. “Draw me something, Linnie.”

“You could keep it as,” Minho says. “It could be a statement.”

“What statement?”

“That aesthetics are only arbitrary, and experiences dictate your reality,” Minho says, “and that there’s no objective standard for judging things.” He glances at Jisung. “I don’t believe in that, I hate it, but—I don’t know...you’d be that post-modern type if you liked art.”

“You kept thinking about me, did you?”

They’re interrupted by a loud knock on the door. “Ji, my charger.” 

Changbin. 

Jisung springs from the futon and slides on the first pair of shorts he picks from the floor. It’s Minho’s.

He opens the door. “Here.” Hands Changbin the charger.

“Thanks,” Changbin says, then he adds, mocking, eyeing the deep scratches down Jisung’s chest. “We've got a cat, now?”

“Yeah, got myself a kitten,” Jisung replies instantly. “Laps up my milk.” He chuckles.

“They clawed you like they wanted blood, mate, should try going carnivore,” Changbin says. He turns to Minho. “You know anything about that?”

“Weren’t you late?” Minho asks, burying himself into the sheets to maybe get swallowed by it.

“Sure, kitten...I'll be back by five.”

Jisung grins and shuts the door closed with a thud. “Thanks for the warning.”

“On you,” Changbin says from the corridor, voice creeping in through the plasterboards like theirs must creep out when—

Minho's ears burn. “Maybe we should keep it lower next time.”

“I get a next time, yeah?” Jisung says, scooting closer to kiss him on the neck. “Must've done something right.”

**Author's Note:**

> [ THIS PROMPT IS ABSOLUTELY PERFECT TYSM, PROMPTER](https://i.ibb.co/mHj6gfh/Screenshot-20210302-182137-Gmail.jpg)
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
> my twitter is [@skziena](http://twitter.com/skziena)


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